The Obscurity of Chaos
by Purple Puffer Fish
Summary: She was tasked with two simple actions: deliver food to the cell of a mass murderer, and under no circumstances speak to him. But she is about to be brutally reminded that rules mean nothing to him, and his confinement is about to be brought to an abrupt end. Bane lives; post TDKR. Gradual and dark B/OC. Made the cover photo - don't own the image.
1. Chapter 1 : Pilot

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything except my originals. Please refrain from suing me for copyright infringement. I also don't own my cover image...some British guy does.**

**A/N: Hello all! I finally got to see TDKR today and was completely **_**enthralled**_**. I honestly didn't think that it could beat the awesomeness that was The Avengers, but it did...hands down. And so, naturally I had to start a fic on it. I was fascinated by Bane, as most of you reading this probably were, and thought it would be interesting to see what would have came about should he have lived. This is that tale :D**

**Warnings: This is going to be a **_**dark**_** piece of work, as mentioned in the description: Bane/OFC, but not the whole "bad-guy-falls-in-love-and-BAM-suddenly-is-good" scenario. If you want that, there are tons of them out there (though I'm not sure that there are any for this character yet...then again I haven't looked). Anyways: DARKNESS, rating may go up depending on multiple things. **

**I hope you enjoy and please do leave a review if you so desire :P**

**Chapter 1**

She parks her car just outside of the large building and steps out into the cold weather, hoping that the signs of spring will soon envelop Gotham with their provision. She grabs her worn backpack and slings it carelessly over one shoulder as she closes the door of the aging Buick and locks it, dropping her keys into her pants pocket. She walks up to the doors of that which is to be her new place of work, feeling nervous and unqualified, knowing that most everyone within is a trained professional, and she, a meager young woman of twenty-five, will be an amateur. Her hands fumble only just on the handle of the door before she pulls it open and enters.

Greeted by a pair of security officers, she accepts the safety inspection with all the dignity she can muster and continues on her way when she is given the green light. She stops at a front desk enclosed by a glass window, studied by the middle aged woman behind it.

"I'm here for my first day of employment," she states meekly.

The woman nods with a small smile. "Yes, we've been expecting you. I see you have your uniform on already."

It is her turn to nod, but is reminded of how uncomfortably the blue polo-like shirt is on her. She signs her in for the first time on the computers and tells her where to go. She walks away without saying anything else to her, anticipating the meeting with her colleagues. She travels through what appears to be a dingy staff lounge of sorts - looking to be used only minimally -, drops her bag on one of the couches there, and then finds herself in the place where she should be: the main security room.

All eyes turn to her, and a harsh looking man with rapidly graying hair steps out to shake her hand. "Sophie Scott - we were just talking about you. 'Thought you wouldn't show up."

"No, sir," she states, "I don't want to miss out on a job opportunity."

The man scoffs, "Tell that to the others who quit on us once they found out what they were gonna be doing." Laughs come and go throughout the room. Sophie notices that there are many computer screens being observed. She sees a single individual in each of them and forces herself not to look anxious.

"Well, I won't quit now. You have my word."

"Good kid" - and she really is a 'kid', for everyone around her has to be over forty - "we'll waste no time then. Follow me."

Sophie goes after him. "What should I call you, sir?"

"Not "sir" that's for sure. Just call me Morton for now." He switches subjects rapidly, "Now, your main objective here is to make sure our buddy is "_properly cared for_" because the government wants him alive for only God knows why - if I had my way he would have been dead the day they caught him." Morton shows her into another room at the bottom of a flight of steps. It is occupied by a few people. "This is the kitchen, obviously, and we just give him the leftovers from what we have. Sometimes he eats, sometimes he doesn't, but that's not your problem either way. You just take it to him two times a day."

She wonders for what must be the hundredth time why they need someone to come in to simply _deliver food_ to the man they are keeping. Do they not have workers to do that? Or perhaps it's more then that. Perhaps they need someone young and calm to do it. She has only seen men - excluding the woman at the front desk - so far. Do they want a female to do the task? She speculates on...

Morton continues to explain more of the details to Sophie, most of which are common sense: "Don't ever go in the cell - you'll have the pass code but are never to use it", "Always take the tray out, empty or not", "We can't hear you over the cameras but there's always some guards around so you should be fine". She absorbs all of this affably and persists in listening as he talks on about this and that. He's a nice guy, really, but seems to be a bit cruel in his opinions on the said "guest" they're housing. One would have thought that with just having _one_ single person on the premises - a _dangerous_ one, no less - that the man in charge would show a bit more respect. Sophie shrugs it off and accepts it for what it is. She reminds herself that she's making money, not debating her boss's outlooks.

"Oh, and most importantly," Morton finishes, leading her back up the steps towards the main room. He even pauses, looking down at her severely and saying, "Under _no_ circumstances, are you to _speak_ to him."

"I understand sir," she says, not quite telling him the truth. He looks unconvinced, so she adds, "Give him his food two times a day. Remember to take out the trays. Make sure he's healthy enough looking from the outside of the cell. Don't go in. And never talk. I think I got it all." At her recitation of what he has just told her, he looks satisfied at last.

"Okay, Miss Scott..." Morton resumes his decent, "...I think you have food to deliver."

Sophie turns around and goes back into the kitchen, noticing that there is already a tray set out for her to pick up and take the distance down the hall. Gripping it securely and picking it up, she exchanges a quick glance with one of the kitchen workers, who watches her sympathetically, and exists. Her legs begin to feel heavy from fretfulness, the corridor she walks down feeling miles long. She assures herself that everything will be alright, but even her mental promises seem empty as she questions the fact that not a half-hour ago she simply walked into this building and now was taking food to a mass murderer.

_Stop it_...she scolds herself, _Just stop it. There's cameras everywhere down there_..._You'll be fine_.

But once again, when she gets to her destination, stands in front of the cell and observes its occupant, she's not so sure.

He sits on the metal bench in the back, still as a statue with his head bowed and his eyes closed. He looks as if he could be praying or something of the sort, though Sophie knows this is not the case. She takes in the sight of him, feeling very much like a child, small in stature and muscle composition next to the monster before her. Still he does not move, but she hears him breathing as clear as day. He appears well, all things considered, but if her new employers think she can discern farther then obvious outward appearances, they are dead wrong. She's no physician - she's a college graduate with no money and a useless degree in Greek mythology.

Swallowing her trepidation with the thought of being observed by those in the security room on her mind, she bends down, takes out the other tray, slides the new one through the diminutive slot at the bottom of the cell's door, glancing at the prisoner the whole time, then stands and leaves, relief washing over her.

It hits her fully when she leaves shortly after, having come in just in time to give the building's guest his second round of food for the day.

_Good Lord_..._I just saw Bane_.

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this pilot chapter! We'll have more Bane in the next one, but as with most pilots, I needed to establish the reasoning behind Sophie being where she is. I'll have the next one out ASAP, but let me know what you think in the mean time :D**


	2. Chapter 2 : The Price of Confidence

**A/N: In the name of everything that is good and right in this world, I thank you all! My email inbox has been constantly filling with notifications, and it has made me very giddy indeed! IT'S VERY OVERWHELMING IN AN ENTIRELY POSITIVE FASHION! I'm so happy you enjoyed the first chapter, and I truly hope you find the rest of this story interesting. **

**Chapter 2**

Directly after her first experience of what her new job will entail, Sophie meets her friend at a local restaurant. The other woman, Teresa, is one she met at college, one who has a useful degree and will be getting places with her life. Sophie has to heave a forlorn sigh when she thinks about it, but knows for a fact that physical education is far less lucrative then what she will be doing. She wishes she could tell Teresa about her new occupation - if one could call it that - but was informed over the phone that she cannot mention it to anyone, should it be made known to the remaining radicals who would want to manipulate her into doing something terrible.

She watches Teresa pick at a salad across from her, holding back a good-humored scoff at her eating habits. Teresa has always been a light eater, she has heard. "So," Teresa begins after taking a drink of her iced tea, "found a job yet?"

Sophie has dreaded the question even before she met up with her friend, "Um, not really, no." She adds then for good measure, "I was thinking of trying the animal shelter near my apartment, though..."

"You would be so good at that! Those sad little animals would cheer up as soon as you walked in the door." They both laugh, but Sophie feels a bit guilty for having to lie.

"How's _your_ job?"

Teresa brightens, "Well, I've been accepted at a middle school just outside the city. I start in a couple weeks." School would be out for the summer in a few short months, and Sophie doubts that she'll be able to integrate herself properly in that time with so many people. "Hopefully they've completely fixed up the roads leading out of here by now. It's been over a year - you'd think they would have worked faster by now."

Sophie shrugs, trying to keep at bay the thoughts that threaten to cloud her mind. "They have other, more important things to work on besides roads I guess. The new mayor must have his hands full...poor guy."

"Are you kidding me? The new guy sucks. Gotham needs Garcia back," says Teresa most adamantly.

Amused, Sophie rolls her eyes, "Teresa, you hate politics. You just _say_ that you want him back because you thought he was attractive."

"And you _didn't_?"

"No. Not at all. He was too..._pretty_."

They laugh again at this and continue with similarly insubstantial topics.

It is a nice time that Sophie spends with Teresa, and for just a little bit she forgets about what lies in store for tomorrow. She's confused, intimidated - as she should be - and worried that she'll somehow screw up something that is supposed to be very simple. She yearns to know why she, someone who society would deem "unpretentious" and a young woman moreover, would even be _considered_ material for the ranks of those who watched over dangerous criminals. _Oh shut up_...she has to admonish herself again for over thinking the matter, and determines to ask Morton in the morning when she gets to her workplace again.

...

...

...

The next morning Sophie has to drag herself out of bed, having had sleep evade her until a measly hour before her alarm goes off. She knows she can't allow this to become a normal occurrence or she will suffer the consequences significantly. She makes a mental note to find some sleep medication if the restlessness continues as she hauls herself into her tiny kitchen area and makes a cup of instant coffee. Leaning against the counter, she drinks it slowly, savoring the unsweetened energy boost she needs.

After finishing her coffee and swiftly scarfing down a bagel, she changes into her uncomfortable work shirt and long khakis and finishes going about her morning routine. After neatening her hair, throwing on minimal cosmetics and checking herself once more in the mirror, she leaves her apartment and heads down towards the main exit in the complex. It isn't a particularly nice place, but it is a step above the Narrows. For this she is ever thankful.

In approximately twenty minutes time, she arrives at the building - an unidentified place, no sign out on the front, probably in an effort to attract as little attention as possible - and goes inside for the second time. The two male security guards at the entrance are the same ones as the day before, and Sophie takes notice that their nametags say "Officer Davis" and "Officer Perez". They seem forthcoming enough - or as friendly as two intrusive guards can be without being off duty. She once again lets them do their job without comment, trying to become acceptable in the eyes of her superior colleagues.

The woman at the desk, Judith is her name, signs Sophie in and sends her on her way without the warm expression she bore yesterday. Sophie concludes that someone in Judith's position, not getting many visitors and simply there to make a more professional standard air surround the place, could easily become disillusioned, for it is not an office or medical facility that is being maintained, it is a prison for a single deadly inmate. Perchance the government set up a "front desk" in the first place to assure that, even if people _do_ enter the building, they see nothing but normalcy, unaware of what is happening beyond the walls of the main atrium.

Sophie meets up with Morton - last name unknown - not minutes later and is welcomed with another formal handshake. The security room is buzzing, as expected, but there is another man there today, a younger man with sandy colored hair and eyes the color of the ocean. He is dressed formally, black blazer over a pure white shirt - deficient of a tie but looking quite handsome all the same. Sophie feels a bit awkward. He stands behind Morton and observes her without comment until introduced.

"Oh yes, Miss Scott, this is Doctor Gabriel Carter. He's our resident psychotherapist. Big name over in Los Angeles. He's been trying to work with our...visitor." Sophie conjectures why Morton always refers to the madman like he is sought after company.

Carter nods at her from where he stands, not making any move to shake her hand. "Hello," he says by way of a light voice.

"Hi," is all Sophie replies with, not having much else to say. "If you'll both excuse me then." She goes to make her departure through the doorway and down the stairs, but Morton stops her momentarily.

"Doctor Carter wanted to talk to you about something."

She goes to apologize, turning around, but Carter holds up his hands, "It's alright. I'll walk with you."

And so he does, accompanying her down to the kitchen where there is a full tray waiting for her. The amount of food on it is astonishing, but taking into consideration the size of the prisoner, she ought not to be so surprised. Carter waits patiently for her outside and he only talks when they are a distance away from the kitchen. "You should know something before you're here any longer," he asserts at length; Sophie listens. "We hired you for a psychological experiment."

She can't say she isn't taken aback by this proclamation, but is satisfied to be getting to know the reasoning behind her employment.

Carter goes on: "We want to see how this guy...Bane" - his name is like a curse coming out of the doctor's mouth - "reacts to having someone as innocent looking as you - I mean no offense when I say that - in his range of vision on a daily basis. So far it has been only men who have worked here" - she thinks of Judith but says nothing - "and introducing a young woman such as yourself into this environment unannounced was something we thought would give us some incite into the psyche of our friend according to his eventual response to seeing you every day."

She wants to ask, '_What makes you think that he of all people would even _care_?_' but forgo that idea, instead saying, "I see. Well, I don't mind being part of this, but how am I to help you if I'm not allowed to talk to him?" They're nearing the cell now.

"You _want_ to speak with him? I doubt that."

Sophie bites her lip, embarrassed and reminded of the ever present apprehension in the pit of her stomach at the prospect of being within ten feet of the monster. "No...I don't," and she confesses quietly to the psychiatrist, "Yesterday I almost gave up. I almost quit like a coward because being near someone like him is petrifying...but I need the money."

Carter's face fills with understanding. It is his job to be compassionate. "Miss Scott, you don't need to be afraid of him here. I assure you that you are quite safe in your position." They arrive at the cell and both stand in front of it. The inhabitant is seated exactly the same as yesterday, massive arms crossed over his knees. "You see?" Carter says, "He cannot get out of this cell unless the door is unlocked. He has been reduced to a mere man for the time being."

She swears she sees the terrorist tense from where he sits.

Sophie replaces the untouched tray from the day before with the new one and steps back, her views on the health of the prisoner the same as last time. And just like that, she and Doctor Carter are walking away.

...

...

...

The food is delivered once at ten in the morning and again at five in the afternoon. Sophie learns that in between that time she will be cleaning with the small group of building caretakers. On the whole, she does not mind very much: having something to occupy her mind will be good. She is introduced to an overweight old man with rainbow suspenders who notifies her of her additional duties. She is happy that they are all simple things, busying herself immediately with the washing of hallway, entry area and bathroom floors along with a few other, younger guys. The others keep to themselves, not trying to make conversation.

She has better luck with the guards at the front door while working up there.

Before she knows it, five o'clock rolls around, and she goes alone to take care of her main responsibility. Carter's words echo in her head over and over as she makes the trek down the long hallway, not another person in sight. Her arms have begin to ache from mopping floors, but with the pay she will be getting, she is in no position to complain. She rejoices in the fact that soon she will be able to pay her monthly mortgage payments without monetary assistance. It is enough to spur her onward in her advance on the cell.

This third time, Sophie feels more confident, not letting her guard down but keeping her face blank of any emotion. It helps that he _still_ has not moved when she swaps out the indifferent tray full of long-cold breakfast fare with that of dinner, subsequently giving him a quick once over before starting to go to get ready to leave for the evening, her first full day in the bag.

Sophie sighs in relief, but as soon as her back is turned, she hears a voice. An unnerving masculine voice from inside the cell.

"You presume your emotions are obscured behind the premise of recently discovered self-belief..." Slowly, ever so slowly, Sophie turns, her eyes suddenly closed and her face riddled with dread. She opens her eyes to see that Bane has too, scrutinizing her with the precision of the devil. "But you will soon see how wrong you are."

Sophie wills herself not to panic, wanting nothing more then to flee, but finds that she cannot move, her legs stiff where she stands.

"Come now, do not be shy! As the doctor so adequately stated only this morning, you are entirely out of harm's way," his tone rises peculiarly in pitch at the end of the sentence and he makes a wide gesture with his arms around the cell from where he remains. At last he stands, rolling his neck, "Or perhaps your silence arises from the regulations of your employers?"

Sophie assembles all the courage she possesses in that moment and makes her escape, aware that all those watching the camera feed will think her full of spinelessness, but she doesn't care. She has to get out of that hallway.

She ignored the remarks from the people in the security room as she walks through on her way out to her car, resolving to get some medication to help her sleep, because she will not be able to without it, that much is certain.

**A/N: Well, there ya have it! Chapter 2! Sorry there wasn't much Bane in it :( but I hope his little part at the end was written well!**

**Ah, yes, the mention of Mayor Garcia is a nod to my own love of the actor who plays him, Nestor Carbonell. I was very angered that he was killed in the movie and was like "You have got to be kidding me...YOU DID NOT JUST DO THIS TO ME!" when he just kind of died unexpectedly. But whatever - minor character, I get it. Are there any others out there who feel the same way about him?**

**In any case, please do review and tell me what you think. This WILL be a Bane-centric fic, but not until he gets himself out of his little imprisonment predicament :3**

**I probably won't have one out tomorrow, because my day will be taken up with a hunt for a new pair of glasses, Wal-Mart with my mother and my nerdy Monday evening job at a library. I do so hope you all understand :3**


	3. Chapter 3 : A Year of Solitude

**A/N: Oh you guysss...You give me such a boost to my self esteem, you do. I have NEVER had much luck with fanfiction, so once again, from the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU. Here's the next one for you, my friends! It took **_**such**_** a long time because I take care to write my main cannon characters. Most of this chapter centers around Bane and what's been happening in his life over the past year-and-three-months. I certainly hope I captured his superior intellect in an sufficient manner :D Do enjoy and review on your way out, fans of fiction.**

**Chapter 3**

He remembers the sensation of pain in his chest, sudden pain that he cannot quite grasp the source of as he lays in an undignified heap upon a cold, hard floor. The world around him fades in and out of black - he hears his heart pounding through his skull with a depth of thunderous war drums, unstoppable; relentless as death itself.

Then it occurs to him that it might actually _be_ death trying to drag him down, in fact as time blurs together and the pain intensifies, he _knows_ that his life is about to come to an sudden halt.

It happens quickly, a providential and simple loss of consciousness.

Bane's last thought rests on his own failure.

...

...

...

He awakens as the pull of unaltered air into his lungs and a searing, crippling ache take over his body again. For the briefest of seconds he panics, spine rigid with alarm.

Someone has removed his mask. Someone has taken away his source of existence. His face is exposed. His eyes open wide.

"He's awake!" a distant voice shouts. Echoing footfalls follow.

There is a light above him, blinding for an instant, blurred the next. He strains to perceive what he is seeing, and he wonders grimly if this is what it is like to be a newborn infant seeing the world for the first time, innocent and helpless as its cries reach the ears of its deliverers. Instinctively he goes to move his arms, but finds the action impossible. He can't move at all, he discovers with abhorrence building in his pain clouded mind.

"He can't breathe!" someone exclaims. "We have to put his mask back on him!"

"_No_!"an aggressive tone responds, "Let him go he can breathe just fine!"

It is clear now that it is a gray ceiling that he is looking at, and that he has been powerfully restrained by some means. This makes his blood boil in his veins - no one has the superiority to hold him back! He alone holds the supremacy, and though he finds arrogance distasteful, he knows that he should not be trifled with. His hands flex, cramped from lack of use, and he feels the texture of the surface beneath him: soft, displaced by pressure. Some sort of bed, no doubt.

His breath comes in frantic gasps now. He raises his head to look for his mask - he needs it terribly and it is nowhere to be seen. Without it he is only a man, not a symbol of destruction.

A man who is a sorry and broken example of a human life.

He blacks out in agony.

...

...

...

The second reawakening is much kinder. There is no more pain, but instead a mildly irritating throbbing throughout his torso. He is able to take in his surroundings in a more adequate fashion, becoming aware of the seemingly unbreakable bindings holding his massive form down to what he recognizes as a sort of hospital bed.

The room he is in is plain; very plain with nothing except gray walls to surround him with dullness.

He sees a movement off to his right. Ah, excellent, a doctor to receive due answers from. Observation shows that the individual in question is concentrated on a paper on a portable metal table. She looks to be in her thirties, but it is hard to tell with women.

"Pardon my interruption," he is amused when the doctor - or nurse, he reasons he should refer to her as - whips towards him with shock written on her face, "but I want to know how long I have been..._away_." His voice feels unfamiliar to him.

"Um - you've, uh, it's...erm..." she sputters, unnerved.

His eyes narrow with aggravation, "Are you mentally challenged? If so I should think they would trust someone of higher caliber with the paperwork."

The insult goes without notice. She swallows loudly and clears her throat in a halfhearted way, "You have been out for two..._uh_, two weeks."

Two weeks? His mind reels at the thought. All the things that could happen in two weeks time...

"Explain the pain in my upper body," he demands of her.

The nurse struggles to stay calm. "I should go get someone more qualified."

He scoffs loudly, "You are in this room with me. That alone denotes your apparent proficiency. _Speak_."

She shakes her head a little, looking as if she's trying to shake out some inward voice telling her to run away and never step foot in the room again. "D-don't you remember?" His intense silence and stare prompts her onward. "You were - um, that is to say that you were...shot."

So there is was: the source of the discomfort. He is able to evoke the memory now. The cat whore had utilized one of the Batman's contrivances. He had been struck in the chest by a powerful shot and left to die. He is able to piece together the rest effortlessly: the authorities had picked him up and gotten him medical attention. His mask had been off when he had first woken up. They must have removed it for a time to assure regular nerve functioning as they were - he cringes - saving his life.

He has no desire for their help. In fact he infers that it would have been better to be dead.

By the time he finishes mulling over these things, the nurse has gone.

He sinks into a deeper state of contemplation.

...

...

...

Three more weeks pass before he is moved.

They sedate him, much to his displeasure, but when he comes to he finds he is no longer restrained. He sits up on the metal bench they have placed him on and looks down at himself. He is clad in the hackneyed prison jumpsuit, deep blue in color. It is tight and seemingly forced over his broad shoulders, and he takes great delight in unzipping it down to the waist and getting out of it, letting the top part drop away. The oversized black beater underneath will have to do.

He gets to his feet slowly, no stranger to the hardships of standing the first time after being out of commission for weeks. Willing himself not to quiver, he begins to pace the white-walled cell he has been deposited in. He checks the and glass for weakness, finding none. The only furnishings are the metal bench, a cot in one corner and a toilet in the other - far more lavish then the other prison he endured for so many years of his life.

When he feels confident about his strength, he drops to the floor and does push-ups until the lack of training drives him down onto the floor.

For another week, he eats as much as he can bear when he takes off his mask and exercises relentlessly, returning slowly but surely to his previous state of physical perfection.

Life carries on...

...

...

...

He hears someone cough from outside the cell. His head snaps towards the sound from his position on the metal bench, arms braced on his knees and hands supporting his bowed head.

Commissioner Gordon stands there. He should be dead by now.

"Am I to imagine you are here to make trifling threats against me?" asks the terrorist nonchalantly.

"You could, but no, that's not why I'm here." Gordon shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "The government has decided...to let you live."

A slight snort, "_Clearly_. Although I _am_ curious as to the reasoning behind this," he pauses, searching for the right adjective, "_monumental_ decision."

"I don't know. I only deliver the news. But rest assured that you _are_ going to be locked up for the rest of your life."

His eyes flash with loathing, "I have been detained before - I find the notion inconsequential at the moment." He thinks of the prison from so very long ago.

"Inconsequential..." Gordon repeats in a mumble and looks at him stalwartly, "You have caused the deaths of thousands."

"I have," he agrees passively.

"Where is your _conscience_? Have you ever experienced guilt?"

He turns his gaze away from Gordon, "The question you should be asking, Commissioner, is not on the matter of where my conscience has gone, but rather if I possess one at all."

The police administrator's face shows his fury. "You deserve this," says Gordon bitterly.

"Then, all men do! It is in the human nature to punish and _be_ punished!" he laughs cruelly at the man, "That is why I am going to break you someday, James Gordon. I am going to break you and feed your body to dogs."

Gordon looks like he is debating whether or not to take a substantial step back from the cell. He studies the murderer within for a moment longer before saying unexpectedly, "Talia al Ghul is dead. Does that mean anything to you?"

For an instant, he feels his heart lurch inside his chest, but straightens in posture directly after. He should have known better then to think that she could possibly be alive after the havoc that was raging at the time of her departure. Ultimately he replies, "Of course not. Her death was probable."

Gordon's mouth thins before he shakes his head and starts to leave without and final words.

"Tell me, Commissioner...how does the Bat fare?"

He is answered with a forlorn contortion of the other man's face that tells him everything he needs to know.

Batman is dead.

Bane starts to think that perhaps he hasn't failed after all...

...

...

...

He quickly discovers that the facility he is being housed in is far from a normal prison. He is the only one there - or in any case the only one in his particular section of building -, to begin with, having noted this from the emptiness of the hall on either side of him and there are many cameras outside the cell. Once in a long while, he stares into them, visualizing the troubled expressions on the faces of those who are paid to constantly watch their feed.

Every so often he is given a bowl of water and a washcloth, which he uses even more rarely. He spends hours in deliberation, hours overcoming the protests of his own body with rigorous exercise, a minimal amount of time sleeping and minutes each day eating as much as the pain that his maskless face causes allows. Occasionally he forgoes food all together, preferring to be numb.

This he continues for just over a year...

...until one day he gets an unusual visitor along with his evening meal.

The young woman is like a fearful baby animal. He watches her closely when her eyes leave him to focus on her job, her small hands exchanging the food trays from the slot at the bottom of the cell's door. She never notices his attentiveness, however - he makes certain of that.

It is when he sees her that a plan starts to take shape inside the confines of his acutely calculative brain.

Most women are foolish, easily manipulated by anyone with the right words and leverage.

He has always been manipulative.

His leverage will be a web of lies.

**A/N: There ya have it! I struggled and struggled to make Bane's personality show but to also keep everything realistic for now. I hope you all found it interesting! Sophie shall return in the next chapter. **

**OH - and this is completely random, but is anyone else who enjoys the band Rammstein reminded of Bane by the weird industrial feel of their music? Just thought I'd put that out there because it has inspired me as of late ^_^**

**Peace, love and spicy men.**


	4. Chapter 4 : Help

**A/N: Thank you all for the wonderful feedback! I feel as though I need to clear a little something up before you continue. I have received a few comments about how elements in this fic are like the movie "Silence of the Lambs". My hands are clean in this matter because I -awkward cough- have never seen it. I'm not uncultured I swear ;) ! I just never got a chance to see it - and all I know is that is has Anthony Hopkins in it as a creepy old man who eats people 0.0 My condolences if any unintended similarities bother you. And now since that is out of the way, onwards we venture!**

**Chapter 4**

"That's all he said to you?" Morton inquires the next day.

Sophie is surprised at herself for willingly going back to this place. She had not planned on doing so, but somehow had summoned the strength to force herself into her car this morning. She nods at her superior gravely. Doctor Carter is there as well, and looks on with what appears to be animation, uneasy animation, but a lively sentiment nonetheless.

"How do you feel about this, Doc?"

Carter turns his attention to Morton, "To be frank, I think it's wonderful." Back to Sophie he goes. "Did you know, Miss Scott, that he hasn't spoken a single word in over a year? That is until yesterday."

Sophie shakes her head in perplexity, "No, sir I didn't. Why is that?"

"Multiple reasons. He is normally very..._involved_ in his own efforts to stay on top form and ignores anyone who comes near the cell. Other times he simply acknowledges a presence with his eyes. Solitude can shape a person in immense ways. By now he is used to silence we have given him, and so silence is expected from him in return."

"Why did he talk to me, then?"

"I regret to say that I'm unsure. But this is very good, Miss Scott. _Very _good. You are doing well. Just continue showing up at the same time every day with his food and we'll keep on monitoring you."

Sophie's face harbors a sheepish expression. "This has become very hard for me a bit quicker then I thought. It's my third day - I wasn't expecting this." She then wants to take it back. She should not be complaining so with the salary she takes home from this. "I'm...I'm sorry I just feel a little overwhelmed."

_Stop being so dramatic_...her inner voice tells her curtly, _This isn't a soap opera. It's life. It just got real - deal with it_...

Doctor Carter is indulgent, "That is completely understandable. I'd be intimidated too if it wasn't my profession to handle being around madmen." Morton silently concurs with him as he excuses himself to attend to other matters, but with him, it doesn't make as much sense. Sophie shrugs lightly and Carter chuckles, sobering when he says, "Today you'll be taking him two things along with his food."

Judging by the lack of things in the cell, Sophie wants to comment that it should be more then just two things, but her mixed feelings on the matter keep her quiet. "What?"

"One is a pair of small canisters filled with a matter our friend needs to survive."

Her brow creases as she tries to comprehend what Carter could be referring to.

He answers her unvoiced questions a beat later, "They're for the mask he wears," Carter clarifies, and Sophie becomes more bemused. "You didn't think he wears that apparatus just to look threatening did you?"

"Well - uh..." she trails off, blushing furiously at her stupidity.

"That's alright," the doctor smiles at her warmly, "a lot of people make the same mistake. But the mask is what keeps him alive, and if we did not supply him with the substance he needs every month, he would succumb to his own pain very quickly."

"What's in these things I need to give him?"

"A drug that deadens his ability to feel his own muscles. I was told that it was an injury from a _long_ time ago."

Sophie wonders, _Exactly how old is this guy anyway_...? But she dares not ask. "And the second thing I have to deliver?"

"Much more simply explained: a _book_."

"A book? That's _it_?"

"Yes. He's never been provided with reading material before, and I believe that _you_ taking these two objects to him will further help us judge his responses to your being here."

Sophie stands from her chair in unison with Carter, who escorts her as far as the stairs. He is a really nice guy, she muses, a little too intelligent for her tastes, but easy on the eyes and a genuinely caring individual. She only wishes that he wasn't so interested in her for her role in his experiment - she feels as if it puts a lot of unnecessary weight on her shoulders, having to gratify him with her daily tasks. She regards him with mixed emotions for a brief moment, then absents herself to go take care of business.

...

...

...

The book and two, small cylindrical objects are sitting on the tray with the food when she arrives in the kitchen to get them. She takes one of the life-giving canisters in her hand and examines in. It is very light, making her assume that it is a vapor that resides within. She places it back down onto the tray and then picks up the book. "The Brothers Karamazov" by Fyodor Dostoevsky - a monster of a piece of literary work she would never pick up in her life.

_He must be an intellectual if they're giving him something like this to spend his time on_...Sophie thinks, the heaviness of the book appalling as she sits it down. She lifts the tray up with steady arms, aggravated when she discovers how burdensome the it actually is today with the added weight. Taking a deep breath, she exits the kitchen and makes her way to the cell with a racing heart, terrified that he might address her again. _Thank God he doesn't know my name_...

When she gets to the cell she checks to see what he is doing before she gives him his dispersals. He is exercising this time, his body rising and falling on the floor by way of his arms. Sophie guesses he must have to do such things all the time, and quietly - shaking the smallest amount with fright - gives him his new tray, the old one blissfully light in her hands. She is thankful that he is so caught up in what he is doing that she can slip away without being noticed, and cannot deny the relieved sigh that escapes her mouth. She goes off to take on her cleaning assignment for the day.

Until five o'clock.

...

...

...

When she returns, he's seated on the bench reading. Sophie tries to be quiet and unobtrusive again but it is infinitely more difficult. Reading can only distract one so much...

In seconds he has his attention on her. She refuses to look at him as she takes the morning's tray out. The food is untouched - she is not surprised by this any longer, even after only three days - but what is more peculiar is the fact that neither are the pair of canisters. She ponders on this and raises her stare to meet the terrorist's in a moment of skewed bravery from her place near the door.

When he speaks this time, she is not taken unawares and knows to back away.

"This is a wonderful book," he remarks with that oddly garbled voice of his. "I find the viewpoints of the author to be stimulating, wrong though he is."

Sophie keeps her mouth shut, putting on a fearless face she knows he could see right through even if it was pitch black in the hallway.

"I should think you would constrain yourself to be more accustomed to this routine by this point. It has been three days. Yet I see that you still shudder." What Sophie finds most disconcerting is that he makes no move to approach her. Perhaps he is jaded, tired of putting forth effort to make someone uncomfortable. "I'm afraid that this nonsense will have to stop. I am in need of your help."

Very slowly, Sophie signals her refusal.

"Very well then. Get me one of the men here. You seem to have developed a camaraderie with Doctor Carter - go and fetch him!_"_

Against everything she was told, Sophie whispers a barely audible and extremely timorous, "_Why_?" but he hears it satisfactorily enough.

"The canisters - I cannot replace them on my own. Were you not informed?" No reply. "Ah, well now is the time to gain this gem of edification. Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance, and you _have_ been very ignorant."

Again, just as quietly, her lips barely moving as not to be seen by the cameras, "How?"

"You see what you wish." And that is all he says on the matter. Sophie was expecting a bit more amplification. He looks back down at his book, flipping the page, "Find the psychologist."

He doesn't have to say it again.

**A/N: Thanks for the continued support! It won't be too much longer before things start to pick up from the established schedule. The quote about knowledge belongs to Confucius...because I could never come up with something as profound like that man could.**

**Anyway: is there anything you want to see happen? I like to hear from you! **

**Have a wonderful day/night wherever you are in the world :D **


	5. Chapter 5 : Hatching the Facade

**A/N: Hi there! Thank you guys times infinity for the encouragement! It really means a lot to me :) I hope you enjoy this chapter - upon request it is longer then the last, my longest chapter so far, in fact! **

**Chapter 5**

Sophie hastens up the hallway to find Doctor Carter, not wanting to elicit an antagonistic response out of the man in the cell.

She debates once more about referring to him by his name. She has been contemplating it for a long while, but finds the notion thwarting, to say the least. Recalling that she has only heard them actually say it once in three days, she decides that it must be somewhat of an difficult concept to become acquainted with - a monster having the pleasure of a name, albeit a cognomen of sorts, but a name nonetheless. A name that instills bad memories and hate within the hearts of those who heard it. It is because of this, she surmises, that Carter spat it out like it was a foul word when he said it the day before. She doubts that it would be taken lightly if she just goes around calling him what he wishes to be called. Uncertainties would surface, the workers at the building - still not labeled as anything specific - would think something was amiss; would think that she had been breaking the rules.

Gotham was still rebuilding, and would be for innumerable months to come. No one was going to forget the terrorist and what he had done, his overturning of the city, his aid in the indirect death of the Batman and very _direct_ murder of other innocents for his own gain. Sophie recognizes as well as anyone what it would mean to say the name as if it is just another one of her friends from college she is talking about, yes, and it would not be pretty by any means.

She thinks she's being ridiculous, but it is complete and utter truth behind her reasoning. Gotham is an unforgiving city to be sure, and more often than not Sophie Scott is among the indifferent when it comes to crime, but she sees clearly where the people are coming from. She sees _very_ clearly, indeed.

Sophie is met by Carter before she reaches the end of the hallway. The doctor's face is contrite as he comes to a stop in front of the young woman.

"I'm sorry about this, Miss Scott," he says apologetically, "but this was a test."

"A...test? I see," Sophie suspects that she should grow accustomed to the prospect of such trials if she is to continue working here. "What was the point?" Though she has her own suspicions.

Carter replies, "We wanted to see if you would actually go against the policies we set up for you and help the subject."

She had thought that was what it was. "Obviously I passed then."

"Yes you did. Very nicely I might add." Carter gestures for her to walk back in the direction she has only just come from with him. "I would like you to observe how it is done."

"Why can't he change out the two little things himself?" she asks brusquely, "He's a grown man, shouldn't he be able to do things like this by himself?"

Carter shakes his head and says matter-of-factly, "He would have to take his mask off to do so, and he can only take very short instances without it, for example when he eats. It's no simple job either putting in the two new canisters."

Doctor Carter goes on to explain that the prisoner has, in a way, come to rely on his 'keepers' in this aspect of his life. He has never tried anything when someone is handling his mask, though he very easily could simple reach through the small area of the cell that he positions himself near and crush the neck of his helper. Sophie does not disbelieve that the urge to do so has almost certainly plagued him throughout his stay in the small cramped room, and she cannot come up with a logical reason why he has not simply waited until whoever is assisting him has just finished and _then_ kill them. Then she has a moment of palpable consciousness in which she has to remind herself: _What then? What good would it do him? He would need the pass code to get out...and even if he had it, he would have no way to reach the keypad. _

However, something keeps on nagging Sophie that he would _find a way_, if he is as brainy as he appears to be.

The man under discussion wastes no time when Carter and Sophie arrive back at the cell. He deftly folds down the corner of the page he is on in the book he reads and closes it, placing it down onto the bench beside him. He then stands and makes his way over to a place in the cell wall - sited as far away from the keypad to unlock the door as possible - and turns his back. Carter approaches, pausing just before he takes out a key, unlocks and slides open the small window, beckoning Sophie closer. She joins him, hanging back a bit when she sees the convict inside turn his head only just to look at her peripherally. She feels extraordinarily violated, being so close and separated by so little with a murderer taking in her worry-laced movements.

Sophie watches as the psychiatrist cautiously takes one of the cylindrical objects off of the tray she has just apprehended that she still holds, talking coolly and explaining how the process is done. She doesn't hear his voice, only sees his movements as he carefully releases the first canister by way of two, intricately designed fasteners. It takes him a moment, for the tiny latches are not easily moved, and she grasps the reality behind what Carter had told her about the procedure taking longer then she originally expected. The whole while the receiver of the aerosol containers is silent, motionless and composed, but even still infrequently glances at Sophie.

About ten minutes later, the course of action is concluded, and the terrorist takes a deep breath through the mask, turning around unhurriedly and leaning towards the minute window. Looking fully at Sophie with concentrated eyes, he says in a low mechanized voice, "Next time, you will do it."

Doctor Carter steps in, "She is not permitted to speak to you."

He shoots Carter a glare that could paralyze someone, "When I desire you judgment, Doctor, I will ask it of you." And with that said, he returns to his bench and reading material like nothing has happened.

Carter closes the window and locks it, offering to take the tray from Sophie, who relinquishes it gratefully to him. Away they walk and Sophie coerces herself not to look back, keeping her gaze ahead of her. Carter tries to make polite conversation as if nothing just happened, but she only graces him with one word answers and subdued noises of agreement. It's unambiguous that he notices, but he does not call her on it, carrying on in a manner that plainly shows that he's only endeavoring to divert her mental attention elsewhere, if only for a short while. A lot of good that does...

She readies herself to leave soon after, pulling on her warm coat that she has made the habit of unceremoniously throwing on one of the shabby couches in the unexploited staff lounge. She picks up her backpack - telling herself she ought to invest in something a bit less school girlish as soon as possible - and slings it over one shoulder in the habitual tactic, heading out.

"Oh Miss Scott!" Morton's voice comes from the opposite doorway.

She faces him, "Yes?"

He moves towards her and holds out his hand. Between his fingers is a small silver key. "Doctor Carter wanted you to have this. He told me to tell you he wants you here at seven in the morning instead of nine-thirty."

Sophie is floored. She wants to protest with every fiber in her body but takes the key and pockets it. Since when is Carter in charge? She thought the man before her was. She's not certain she likes the doctor any longer. Morton looks rueful.

"Sorry to be the bringer of bad news, here. Doc just wants you to be here the same time as the other people who clean, even though every knows that's just something to take up that seven hours of extra time between your food deliveries."

"That's okay...really," she assures him, not meaning a word of it but hoping he does not notice that insincerity. "It'll teach me - uh, _discipline_ if nothing else."

A small smile from Morton. "Good then. Now get on home and enjoy the rest of your night."

Sophie says goodbye to him then and leaves the building, still puzzled as to why she of all people would be trusted with a key to the building. She knows something can't be right, but tries not to let it get to her a great deal while she drives back to her apartment.

...

...

...

An hour later, Sophie relaxes on her couch in front of the television, watching an inane TLC program out of pure boredom. _As if _all_ people are that difficult when they go to pick out their wedding dresses..._she thinks with an annoyed eye roll. She'd never had a large amount of fortune with relationships, and it had embittered her to the prospect of an evidently happy future with a significant other. It all seems like a miserably confining standard of living, when looked at from the outside. She had once put forth an effort to convince herself that finding the right man would change her opinions, but seeing as it had been nearly eight long years since she had first had that thought at eighteen, she has accepted the fact that her dating life was going nowhere. She is now comfortable with growing old alone.

Annoyed with the irksome Southern divas on TV, she changes the channel to the news, not getting very involved in it when her cell phone rings from the coffee table in front of her. Sophie picks it up and checks the identity of the caller, who turns out to be Teresa. She accepts the call.

"Hey, Teresa," she says, suppressing a yawn, "What's going on?"

"_Oh, hey, I'm actually going to be passing your apartment in a few_," answers her friend, "_and I was wondering if you want to hit up the city with me tonight if you're not busy_."

Sophie wants to decline, exhausted and needing to turn in early if she is to be at work by seven. She debates what to say for a moment, then settles with, "Look, I'm sorry, but I'm really tired. I've been having trouble sleeping these past few days and need to go to bed at an earlier time. Can we do a rain check on this for another night?"

Teresa sighs dramatically, "_I guess. I want to hit up that new club that just opened soon_..."

"They opened a _club_ when they're still trying to clean up the city?"

"_Don't be so pessimistic. Just tell me you'll live a little when you get a chance_?"

"I'll live a little when I get a chance," repeats Sophie dryly. "I'm sorry again, I hope I didn't ruin your plans or anything."

"_Nah - I'll just find a nice bar and drink myself into a stupor. It'll be fun_." Sarcasm, obviously - Teresa has never consumed alcohol in her life, obsessing over it's harmful and unhealthy effects. "_Don't worry about it, Soph, we can hang out again some other time_."

"Maybe this weekend?"

"_That should work. Listen I have to go, but you get that sleep_!"

Sophie smiles, despite herself, "I will. Thanks again for the offer."

"_Shut up_," Teresa responds lightheartedly, and the line goes dead.

Sophie looks at the clock. It is only almost seven.

...

...

...

_Seven in the morning is too early to be going to a job like this_...mumbles Sophie's mind after she parks her car for the day and climbs the steps, building key in hand. She unlocks the door and is disappointed to see that Officers Davis and Perez aren't on duty, but rather a weary looking older gentlemen who simply looks at her and waves her through. Judith is nowhere to be seen either, but there is no one to replace her - the front desk is simply unfilled and dark, the lights above shut off. There aren't many lights on at all, really...

After shedding her coat and bag, she goes into the main room, finding it empty and eerie. Quite disrespectfully she wonders how stupid the people who run this operation are? Giving a key to someone of low status like her and having no one to watch the prisoner at night. Of course the cameras record, but it does nothing for anyone if something important happens and no one is there to act on it at the time. It is then that she realizes that she has no idea of where to go to meet the other people whose jobs are to clean. She sits down in one of the chairs that face the many screens of video feed to see if she can locate them. There are many different places the security cameras focus on, but most of them are centered around the cell, its occupant seemingly asleep. _Well, I guess everyone needs sleep_...she muses, focusing on the screens that are in different places.

Not seeing the others anywhere, she rises from the chair and strides down the steps to the lower level. Sophie walks the bleak hallways a bit, specifically avoiding the one that actually has something in it. _What kind of building is this, really_...? she asks herself with a childlike curiosity, _What was its purpose before this_...? There is essentially nothing anywhere in the large place except the cell, kitchen and upper rooms, so why is a cleaning team needed anyway if there is nothing else to be exploited? Sophie broods over these things until she decides to take the hallway past the cell and see what lies at the other end.

She walks slower when she goes by that which contains the terrorist, still sleeping.

"You are early today..." he says unpredictably, sounding quite amused.

Then again - maybe not.

He stands up from his small bed and stretches. It is a very strange action to see such an enormous man partake in. "I wonder why, though - why are you here before the designated time?"

"N-new schedule," she replies in what sounds a lot like a squeak. She knows she shouldn't be saying _anything_ to him, and doesn't much want to either, but is compelled on by some strange sentiment stemming from his addressing her over all the others. Flattery - she recognizes with horror. She is flattered that this mass murderer is talking to her.

"Why is this?"

"I...I don't - I don't know...Doctor Carter told me to." If they catch her talking to him she will be done. They will dismiss her and she will once again be up the river with no paddle in the financial aspect of her life.

"And do you resent him for this alteration? Have your hours of sleep been lessened?"

Sophie takes steady breaths, aiming to gain composure about the situation but failing deplorably. She watches him cross his arms across his chest, thinking that those arms have the power behind them to snap her limbs like toothpicks and crush her skull like glass shards underfoot. She feels her skin grow cold at the thought of dying like that; at the thought of him escaping right then by some means and killing her right there in the hall, her cries for help unheard. Ultimately, she murmurs tautly, "Yes. I resent him."

"You do..." he rumbles in accord, "You most certainly do. You resent him and those around you with him, don't you? You loathe people - you find them insufferable and condemned, just as I do."

Her eyes open wide at this. He has compared her to himself. She is nothing like him! She has never harmed another human being in her life! He has killed hundreds, thousands and she cannot even bring herself to kill an insect if she finds one in her apartment! _He has no right_..._He doesn't know anything about me - he has no right_...! She screams these things in her head, her expression a mixture of fright and antipathy. The man in the cell cants his head to the side.

"I see I have struck a nerve in you. Acquaint yourself with your own outlooks instead of drowning in seas of unmindful witlessness and the truth will not be so emotionally offending."

Her jaw muscles tighten. "_Why_?" she demands, still quiet and trembling from head to toe. "Why do you p-pick me apart?"

"Because I must. And because no other has done so."

**A/N: WHOO! Chapter 5 is dooone! Thank you all for reading.**

**I must say that - concerning Bane in this story - he will not be excessively humanized. I have read snippets of other stories about him on here, and many authors have tried to make him less harsh and more caring. No - I don't think he would be so unless he was using someone for his own gain or if Talia was involved. Yes - he's a tortured soul who needs a hug - and would probably break the neck of the person who dared to do so - but that does not mean he will become terribly weakened in this particular fic. I hope to show you more of what I mean as the plot progresses!**

**Anyway, thank you so much again for the feedback thus far! Please do keep it up.**


	6. Chapter 6 : Instilling Doubt

**A/N: OVER 100 REVIEWS! I am floored, fans of fiction. FLOORED. I love you all dearly!**

**So I went to see TDKR for a second time on Saturday purely because I'm a fangirl and we do that kind of thing :P You get me. I asked my best friend if she wanted to go with me but she hates the whole Batman franchise - the bloody heathen - so I had to coax her into accompanying me with promises of the adorable boyishness of Joseph Gorden-Levitt and Tom Hardy's godlike body o.O And you know what, she actually **_**really**_** enjoyed it. THIS MOVIE DOES THAT TO PEOPLE. There's my little story for the day. Enjoy this chapter, my friends!**

**Chapter 6**

Bane watches as his stratagem ascends from the stages of infancy into its childhood. He knows the weight of his words have pierced the young woman before him to the core, hence her inquiry concerning his motives. The ending product of his associating his own revulsion of most of the world's populace with hers, highly exaggerated though it is, is gloriously anticipated. Her fear hangs around her, a cloud of dismalness seeming to permeate her body, and she looks upon him with a mixture of odium and consternation. Behind his mask, he grins devilishly - already aware that he will succeed in the long run.

"Do you need to sit down? Certainly you can do so if you feel _faint_," he patronizes, standing close to the cell door now. The girl sinks to the floor, back against the wall and her eyes glued to him like she thinks he will somehow escape his cell and slay her where she is if she looks away.

She peels her gaze away in time and hangs her head despondently. "I don't hate people..." he hears her mutter miserably.

"Ah, so quickly your trepidation starts to fade!" And he is right, of course. Her thoughts have finally taken over her mind; she has begun to doubt herself very quickly. So quickly, in fact, that it seems almost unlikely. He is practiced at reading people, but women's reactions to different instances are something entirely different. They are volatile - erratic, rendering a powerful mind blunted for the time it takes to understand how they have gone from point A to point B in such an expeditious moment. "I expect that your aversion and paranoia now shape the majority of your views of me?"

Her mouth a thin tight line, she says, "This doesn't change anything," her voice still quavering.

"Oh, but it does! You are talking to me now, are you not? You ignore the system to defend yourself - why can you not also do the same for effortless exchange?"

Her eyes shoot up to peer at him from under the curtain of hair that has fallen in her face, "It's...I would hardly call it _effortless_."

For him, perhaps, he thinks dourly. He is skilled at instilling ideas into peoples' heads, but sanity is something he is more then aware that he struggles to control. He has never labeled himself as "insane", but his mind is crooked, as are his methods.

He takes the opportunity to force his stare elsewhere. "You are making assumptions based on the information of others. When I wish to be, I am a civil conversationalist. I only call for the right kind of individual, someone who shares my views, to talk to," he looks back up at her, taking joy in seeing his plan working still. He lied to her, naturally, when he noted her "lack of trepidation" because she perceptibly still looks as if she wants to get up and flee, but she does not need to know that. All she needs to know is that he is not who her superiors tell her that he is, and that - he cringes inwardly at the sheer sentimentality of it - all he needs is someone to talk with.

She shakes her head, "No." Standing, she puts on a fearless face and says, "I can't lose this job."

"You won't." He feels the frustration building within him and lays to rest for the time being, warning himself that he should not clench his fists at his side lest he lose all likelihood of influencing her further. "You wont," he repeats for good measure, his voice taking on a artificial soothing quality.

"I will if I break the rules again. They'll see me talking to you on their video footage." He's surprised that she got out the sentence without stammering. The weakness is still present, however, and it is substantial. "Please..._please_ don't talk to me again."

As if begging has ever truly effected him anyway.

When she starts to walk away, much like he did the first time he spoke to her, he says, "You have a key now. I imagine you will have returned on social call within the next week."

This time...

...this time she doesn't turn around to even acknowledge his being there.

It is one reaction that he has predicted. He counts it an accomplishment in an otherwise bleak current existence.

...

...

...

**A/N: And so the mental shattering has officially commenced! **

**It is intended to be short, in case you're wondering (because, trust me, I enjoy a long chapter...it gives such a sense of achievement). I wanted to focus on ending this particular scene before delving into Sophie's reaction and eventual understanding of all that he has told her. Yes, so, sorry about the shortness, but I hope you understand :) The next one will be longer, I promise!**

**I'll know I've done my job correctly with writing Bane if you can actually hear him saying what he does. Let me know what you think about that and everything else, if you will :D**


	7. Chapter 7 : An Unsettled Mind

**A/N: Sorry it's taken longer then usual guys! I have this problem where if I write too much too often I am never satisfied with the quality of my work, so I have to take breaks at time. (in Sherlock Holmes voice) "That is my curse." In any case, thank you all for reading and reviewing this endeavor of mine! If I weren't such an utterly unaffectionate person I would hug you all - but for now you shall have to settle with an awkward air hug! Onwards we will venture now!**

**Chapter 7**

Sophie leaves the building in a rush, not caring that it is only almost 8AM. She tears to her car and wrenches the door open, her thought running ramped in her head, emotions following the same course. When she is safely in the Buick she lowers her head onto the top of the steering wheel, feeling foolish for running but at the same time feeling out of harms way. With every fiber in her being she hopes that the constant monitors of the screens do not watch the previous night's feed on a daily basis, but at the same time, in her uncertainty she also wishes deep down that they will, and perhaps even dismiss her on the spot. But the money...It's all about her paycheck! She does this feat for the cash - to stay afloat in life and to avoid having to go into debt or solicit money from the few relatives that she has left. Her parents would be so ashamed of her if she had to do that, if they were still living.

Resting her head on the wheel only a few minutes longer, she sits up straight and starts the car, pulling out of her space, still in a daze. She drives aimlessly, taking roads she doesn't usually travel, allowing her reflections to briskly progress. Sophie passes a small park, considers getting out, but decides not to seconds later. There is no one there, most making the morning commute or still sleeping peacefully. She envies them. She has envied those who sleep well for the past _four days_. Even with the sleep medication, she keeps herself awake with her reminiscences and dread of what the next day will hold. Every morning the dark circles under her eyes have worsened, as does the amount of concealer she has to apply to hide them from the prying eyes of the one she takes food to. And the headaches - _oh_ the _headaches_! She takes so many Advil she is surprised she does not have stomach ulcers by this point. Nothing about life is positive anymore. It has all been ripped away in four long days. _But_, she reminds herself, _it would be worse if you didn't get paid so well_...

Sophie has never been a particularly indecisive person, but at present she doesn't exactly know how to bring herself mental peace without resigning from a job she has been at for such a short time span. She deliberates over possible therapy, but trashes that idea when she commits to memory that only _truly_ troubled souls seek out such things. She is a notch above that still, and intends to keep it that way. The storm clouds continue to church in her distressed brain as she finally reaches her apartment complex, having taken a long way, and pulls into her designated parking spot.

She wastes no time in going inside and taking the elevator up, an unusual action for one who prefers using the stairs. Sophie unlocks her door and slips inside, locking it again behind her. She realizes then that she had forgotten her backpack in her haste to leave and her shoulders sink with melancholy. Sighing heavily, she makes her way over to her phone, dials the number of the front desk and Judith, and waits for the answering machine to come on. After the tone she swallows lightly and says, "Hey, uh - it's Sophie. I got pretty sick this morning soon after I got there and had to leave. I don't know if I'll be in today again - probably not. I feel pretty bad. I'll...let you know tomorrow how things are going. Thanks. Bye." She hangs up, a bit more calm.

Sophie is aware that she goes and lowers herself into one of her small living room chairs after this, but does not feel her legs as she does so. She allows the cushy material to swallow her up, folding her legs up to her chest, feeling very small. The whirlwind that is her contemplations does not cease in its invariable revolving - her slim fingers entwine themselves meaninglessly in her dark hair, made darker still by the lack of light in the room. She doesn't cry. She doesn't dare cry, though she wants to. She wants to terribly. It accomplishes nothing, and for that reason it is a worthless waste of energy. It is also an action of frailty, and while Sophie is tenuous, the last thing she needs is another experience to prompt her to always remember this fact.

And so there she sits for hours on end, her impassivity known only to herself.

...

...

...

It is Friday.

Sophie calls her workplace again, this time later in the day. Judith sounds uninterested with her condition, and tells her that Doctor Carter and Morton have been asking if she is well. She subtly rolls her eyes and informs the front desk woman that if she was, in fact, fine, she would be there. She's not fine. _She's not fine._ Judith says nothing else as Sophie tells her she'll be in on Monday without a doubt, and hangs up. She then remembers her bag - she had meant to ask about it.

Back into her tiny bedroom she walks, hair unkempt and clothes disheveled from lying around all day without changing. She wilts back down onto her bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling. The pandemonium in her head has wound down, but she is still unsure of a great many things. She closes her eyes, the room blissfully darkened without the blinds open. It is cold - she longs for an adequate heating system in her apartment, but the building is old, and the means of air and heat have not been updated since the complex's founding. Sophie burrows under her many blankets and continues to lay there, unable to sleep but hankering after it like it is the only thing that will keep her alive.

...

...

...

The doorbell buzzes at four o'clock in the afternoon. Sophie tries to ignore it, but the person on the other side of the door is persistent, and will not stop attempting to get her attention. And so she drags herself out of bed and shuffles lifelessly to the door, unlocking it and opening it just a crack. She grits her teeth in irritation when she sees Carter standing there, waiting to be let in.

"Something you need?" she asks sullenly.

The doctor holds up her backpack in one hand. She opens the door just far enough to acquire in from him, but he won't relinquish it to her. "Miss Scott, there has been _some_ worry about you."

Sophie shrugs thoughtlessly, "There's no need. I just don't feel well."

"You look fine to me," Carter observes knowingly, "May I come in?"

"Will you give me my bag if I let you?"

"Yes, of course."

She releases her hold on the backpack and opens the door wide enough for him to cross the threshold. Carter hands her the bag as soon as he's in the apartment and she subsequently throws it onto a chair behind her. He looks around wordlessly for a time in silence, and Sophie takes the opportunity to retrieve a hair band from the countertop nearby, pulling her disorderly hair back. _Now I look like a sloppy jogger_...she thinks to herself.

"What do you need, Doctor?" She knows he is a smart man, and could probably tell the second she opened the door that she was better then she described over the phone.

Carter looks at her, "Oh, I just wanted to see how you were doing. Morton sends his regards."

She would have frankly preferred it if Morton had showed up instead. "I'm not _that_ important, Doctor Carter, I honestly don't see why my not being there should have an effect."

"You have an significant job, Sophie," he says, and she has never heard him use her name, finding hearing it from him uncomfortable, "whether you realize it or not. The experiment is going swimmingly - we have successfully gotten the subject to react to your presence, and look forward to seeing what will happen in the future."

Shaking her head, Sophie rejoins with, "Will there really _be_ a future? What more can I do for you people?"

"More then you understand right now."

She let that sink in for a moment, considering all the meanings behind the statement. Very slowly she admits to him, "I don't like seeing him...every day."

"I know," replies Carter, then tells her carefully, "You should know - he spoke to me again when I went down to check on him." The psychiatrist pauses. Sophie awaits when he is trying to get at with more then a bit of dread starting to build up in her again. At last, "He asked me if you were still alive. I said yes, clearly, but then he said something that was a bit more unsettling. He said: she will be back the first of the week - she won't be able to seclude herself longer than that."

Carter regards her charily. Sophie has blanched. "So," he says, "what I want to know is...have you been allowing yourself to take to heart what he has been saying to you, and if so is that why you are avoiding the job?"

Sophie takes a deep breath, "Doctor Carter, thank you for delivering my backpack to me, but it's time for you to go now."

A muscle in his face twitches, but after another instance of his studying her, he concedes, mutely leaving the apartment. She shuts the door without a goodbye, despite his own, and locks it again, standing there until she hears his footsteps withdrawing down the hallway to the elevator.

...

...

...

It is Saturday afternoon.

Sophie has ignored all of Teresa's calls, turning off her phone, and when her friend unexpectedly drops by to check up on her, the other young woman nearly has a heart attack. Sophie looks like a mental patient, scraggly uncombed hair that has not been washed since Thursday night and dark circles under her eyes that could rival the Joker's face paint. Teresa grabs Sophie by the shoulders and shakes her fiercely, incensed that she has refused to pick up her phone in two days. Funny - it has felt like a millennium longer then just a couple of days. Sophie explains that she hasn't been feeling well - leaving out the part about the reason why that is - and says that she has been in bed almost all the time.

Teresa is understanding in the end, but Sophie feels nothing but guilt when her friend reminds her that they had plans for Saturday evening, but it's perfectly fine if they reschedule again. Sophie wants to say that it is fine and that she'll be happy to join Teresa in whatever outing she has planned, but agrees that it is another bad time, and she needs more rest to "get the illness out of her system". Teresa offers to stay with her for dinner, suggesting ordering pizza, but Sophie declines this also, telling the other woman once more to go out and enjoy herself, noticing just then that she has dressed for a club.

It is with much reluctance that Teresa leaves, but Sophie is thankful when she is left alone.

It's all she wants right now.

...

...

...

**A/N: Sorry - no Bane in this one, but he can't be in every single chapter! I hope you got the distressed feel I was going for when I wrote all her thoughts and emotions in the first section. Basically the whole time I was listening to the utterly sad song "To Build a Home" by the Cinematic Orchestra, which oddly enough has NOTHING WHATSOEVER to do with anything that's happening, but the feel is right. (epic face) I don't usually listen to music when I write...but when I do, it's good music.**

**Reviews are love, my friends. LOVE. I shall update ASAP!**

**Thank you and goodnight! **


	8. Chapter 8 : Facing The Fear, Sort Of

**A/N: Thank you for the feedback my friends! A thousand apologies for my absence, but I have been busy cherishing the last few weeks of my summer before school starts again. Another note: don't go see the new Bourne movie. It's a huuuge waste of your money even if you love Jeremy Renner...like I do. I went last Friday with two of my friends and halfway through we debated walking out like a lot of other people in the theater did - it was horrible. But enough of that, because I welcome you to the new chapter! Yes, our favorite jacked guy returns in this. Please enjoy yourself and remember to keep all arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.**

**Chapter 8**

The weekend goes by too swiftly. Sophie only leaves her apartment once, and that is to retrieve her mail from her designated box among all the others in the complex's small lobby. She surmises she must look ailing when the elderly couple that joins her in the elevator looks at her like one would look upon a starving child in a third world country. She brushes it off, for she knows that she cannot afford to start concerning herself with the outlooks of people she has only just _seen_ before and never directly associated with. Obtaining her small bundle of mail that has accumulated since the previous Thursday, she makes her way back to the elevator, thankful that no one decides to join her this time. Flipping through the mail she sees nothing but bills, a reminder that she _has_ to return to work on Monday..._tomorrow_. She takes in this unwieldy fact as decorously as she is able to.

She has briefly considered taking another day off to try and prove to the source of her cowardice and discontent that she isn't easily swayed by mere words, but reassesses that notion as soon as it pops into her head. She has already given free rein to her vulnerabilities - caused by the influence of sleeplessness or not - in front of him, and counts it as a futile move that would do her no good in the long run. The whole situation makes her feel so dismally foolish and faint-hearted. Sophie has never been a brave soul, this she knows well, but she is not completely spineless either. She wouldn't have taken the job in the first place if she was an absolute coward, even if she had known what it would entail at that time. Oh yes - a measly two weeks ago to the day. She had received the call on a Sunday evening that she had been accepted for the position. She stops looking through the mail, feeling nauseous. She has felt sick to the stomach a lot these past couple of days. Yet another reason why she thinks she is weak.

"Stop being so frickin' angsty..." she grumbles to herself drearily as she reenters her apartment once more.

Unfortunately, she has never been so skilled at convincing herself of anything.

...

...

...

The alarm goes off at 6, an unwelcome and portentous sound piercing the silence enveloping Sophie where she lies. It has been another sleepless night, and she longs to be rid herself of this affliction, this lurid insomnia that threatens to drive her over the brink of madness. She has already noticed some disturbing little changes in herself - things that she does and how she reacts to certain conditions that are frighteningly uncharacteristic. Her hands rise to her face and stay there as she wrenches herself out of her bed, head pounding with an inexorable ache. She goes into the bathroom, peels off her nightwear and goes to shower, ignoring the fact that she has only just taken one the night before. The hot water is bliss upon her neck.

When she has clothed herself in the scratchy blue shirt and khakis, she dumps three Advil into her mouth and dry swallows them, plugging in her hair dryer. It is when she is going about the process of drying her hair that her hands start to shake, and she is quite surprised that they haven't done so yet when it happens. It is no use. Her hair looks like a bird's nest, even with products in it, and she has run out of time to work on it. Quickly does she cover the dark circles around her eyes, swipe on mascara and proceeds to leave the bathroom, a nervous wreck by this point. Sophie forgoes the coffee and determines that she can't keep any food she would try to eat down, putting on her coat and grabbing her backpack and keys. She worries that she won't be able to drive efficiently, but has no choice. It is 6:48 and it takes twenty minutes to get to her destination - not that she's in a hurry or anything.

Sophie wastes no time sitting around in her car when she arrives, sure that she will convince herself to drive back in the direction she has just come from if she does so. She unlocks the door and nods shakily to the old haggard guard just inside, who, like before, says nothing and doesn't make any attempts to check her for "drugs or weapons". She drops her coat and bag off at their customary home for the day and walks slowly into what she assumes will be an empty security room. But, as with a lot of things, Sophie is wrong this time, and is pleasantly surprised to see Morton there, seated alone at one of the computers. He hears her approach and turns around in the swivel chair, giving her his version of a hospitable smile.

"Well look who decided to come back!" he exclaims, amiable in tone, "Gotta say I'd started to miss seeing you around here."

The one side of her mouth quirks up at the comment but that is all. She has no room for false joy, nor does she wish to put forth the effort to produce it. "Thanks. I'm sorry - I wasn't feeling like myself."

Morton's eyes narrow slightly after a few long seconds of contemplating her. "Hm. I'd say you still aren't, Miss Scott."

Sophie looks to the floor and shrugs lightly, struggling to hide her shaking, "I...I need the money. I had to come back."

He nods in an understanding manner, and she realizes he is very much like a father. A gruff, rather detached father. She wonders then if he has any children that he looks out for in his own way. "Don't we all?" His eyes wander off into the distance, then back to her, "You don't have to do anything yet, I guess. I don't get why Carter wants you to be here early anyway. Then again, he never tells me anything anyway..." He reaches out and pushes one of the other swivel chairs towards her. It bumps innocently into her leg as it stops. "Take a load off, if you want."

Sophie politely declines. "I'm - uh - I think I'm going to go see if I can find any food to take to the cell early. I'm not sure I'm ready yet to face him when he's awake and all..." She averts her eyes, feeling the skepticism rise in the room.

Morton scoffs and spins around to the computer. "Whatever - go for it. I'll be here, if you need anything. Every few days I go through the old night footage to see if anything happens for the records. It's pretty boring - but someone's gotta do it."

She swears her blood freezes in her veins when he says this. _Maybe he'll skip right over last Thursday morning_...she tries to convince her severely paranoid mind, stiffly excusing herself from the room and descending the steps with legs seemingly made of lead. She can just imagine the telling off she's bound to receive if he sees the footage of her hanging about the cell area longer then she ought to have and what's more: _talking_ to the incarcerated one. Shaking her head rapidly - and experiencing an unpleasant dizzy spell as a result - as if to dislodge the misgivings that have latched a hold, she enters the kitchen area and flicks on the light switches just inside the open doorway one by one, illuminating the steel appliance-filled space. Beginning to look for some sort of food that she can arrange on a tray, she finds breakfast foodstuff in the massive refrigerator.

Negligent and dazedly does she place three bagels on top of each other onto a little plate, which then goes onto the tray, accompanied by a couple other edible items. Sophie finds that she essentially hastens with the process, wishing to deliver the food before the monster awakens. She goes down the hallway hurriedly, taking care not to trip or do something foolish that would cause her to drop the objects in her arms. She slows just before she gets to the cell, making sure her footfalls do not cause an undesired ruckus that would wake one from one's sleep. Taking very cautious steps, her heart racing anxiously in her chest, she stops and watches for a moment, confirming that the imprisoned man is, in fact asleep, or at least feigning it for the time being.

Sophie is quick to approach the cell, literally bending down, sliding the tray under, taking out the old and standing back up in one rapidly smooth, muted motion. She looks at the great sleeping form of the murderer, and feels something akin to envy. How can _he_ of all people possibly sleep at all? He doesn't _deserve_ the luxury of it.

She walks away, her sentiments calmed knowing that she is free until 5. It is an odd thing, really, and she wants to believe that she has worked herself up the last three days for nothing at all. She wants to believe it, but knows now that she can't.

Bitterly and with much resentment, she revises her last thought. _He doesn't deserve much of anything_.

...

...

...

Bane is more then a bit satisfied to see that the young woman has returned to her job. He hears her approaching from his place in the small bed, shifting before she has the chance to see him to look as though he is comfortably dead to the world. He sees her shadow for a brief instance before closing his steely eyes and slowing his breathing. He can feel her eyes watching him - taking him in to assure her mistrustful being that he will not try to address her again. She will have to recover from his speaking to her quicker then this if he is to get out of this place before the next year comes round. His eyes flick open for a mere second, and he observes her doing what she normally does: switching out the food trays and stepping back to view him with consternation.

_Such a feeble, feeble creature. So easily broken - so effortlessly shattered with just meager words._ _So much can be done to further fracture its standpoints..._

He allows these dark thoughts to creep in, stirring only when she has gone away.

What is needed is additional unsolicited psychoanalysis of her person, he calculates at last. She has responded to this in a way that promises future prosperity if handled proficiently from here on out. He knows that he is no doctor - not like that bothersome insect, Carter. Nor does he consider himself quite as silver-tongued as Jonathan Crane had formerly been, but the methods to ingraining one's words into a human life are all the same.

One only requires the ability to emotionally cripple, and then to make the necessary reparations that will gain a requisite amount of trust.

...

...

...

**A/N: I hope you liked it! I had an interesting time writing this one! There will be interactions between Bane and Sophie in the next chapter - I enjoy a build up haha :P Please do tell me what you think, guysssss!**

**AND - there is some lovely fanart to be seen for this literary work of mine. The artist has some tremendous work up on DeviantArt, so I encourage you to check out her stuff while you're there!**

**Here be the link to the picture - just remove the spaces and add an "h t t p" and a "com" where they belong because fanfiction despises links, it seems:**

**akumohyoukyo . deviantart . / art / The-O-b-s-c-u-r-i-t-y-of-Chaos-321038783**


	9. Chapter 9 : A Most Anticipated Approach

**A/N: Oh, why hello there! I'm so glad you have returned to this project of mine! Thank you for all the continued feedback - it makes me beam with giddiness like a kid on Christmas morning XD What can I say? I heart you all :D**

**Umm - so where have I been, you ask? I don't know. No, actually I've just been a lazy butt and haven't even attempted to write. My muse, bless her soul, has been very idle lately, and I have filled nights that I should have been writing with pointless TV and horror films, among other hobbies of an artistic nature. **

**Well then, enough about me. On to the story!**

**Chapter 9**

Sophie decides that she can allow herself the luxury of relaxation after she is safely out of the portentous hallway. It is something she has not experienced in days and she thinks it will do her some good. Climbing the stairs after placing the untouched food tray - with the monstrous book sitting on it with the fare - on one of the counters in the kitchen, she goes to rejoin Morton in the security room, fully planning on taking the chair that had been formerly offered to her. She enters the room wearily, and seeing its only occupant is busily involved in watching security footage - which she is still quite antsy about - she slides into the unsteady rotating chair and focuses her gaze on the blank screen before her. After a few minutes, there is a sound of acknowledgement from where Morton sits.

"Oh, geez I'm sorry. I didn't hear you come back in!" He turns in her direction, "Was the big guy still asleep?"

"Yes," says Sophie with relief, "Or at least, if he wasn't he didn't make it known..."

"That's good." Morton glances at the screen he has been watching and then back to her. "So Carter returned your bag to you the other day, did he?"

She nods, an annoyed look creeping onto her countenance. Morton chuckles.

"Did he, y'know..._analyze_ your mental condition?" Another nod - another short laugh. "Expected, I guess."

"I think he was just trying to convince me to come back," Sophie admits uninterestedly, "He was saying all these things about how "significant" my job is."

Morton replies as he once again studies the screen, "And did you kick him out after a few minutes of that crap?"

"I did, yeah."

"That's good - oh hey!" Morton's face lights up, "It's you!" Sophie's stomach drops, but she rolls in the chair over to him when he motions to her. It is what she has been dreading: the day she all but broke down in front of the terrorist. The day she had broken the first and foremost rule of not speaking to him all because his words had struck a cord in her. She bites her lip nervously and persistently notes the reactions Morton is giving to seeing the footage.

She sees herself nearing the cell, then reacting to hearing his unexpected comment with a sharp flinching motion. She sees him stand, stretching, then presumably speaking again. And then, with renewed fretfulness, she sees herself verbally respond. Morton's posture stiffens in his chair. After he observes her address the prisoner a second time, he turns his head to look at her, feelings on the matter unreadable, for his face has taken on a pale vacant appearance. He says nothing and goes back to the screen - she's seated on the floor now in the video, pathetic with her head hanging. What Sophie would give to simply have let the confrontation go after she left that day, and in hindsight, she still feels utterly foolish for letting it get to her like it did. When the experience has been relived in its entirety, Morton speaks.

"Is this why you haven't been in, Miss Scott?" His tone is stringent, borderline accusatory. "Is this why you "haven't been feeling well"?" She has no time to defend herself, though she knows any effort would be ineffective. "This is why I told you not to talk to him! This is why you have that rule and others - because people like him mess with your head if you let them, and you _just let him_."

Sophie cannot say anything else but, "What was I supposed to do?" in a very small voice.

"Anything but _that_!" he gestures forcefully at the computer screen, "_Anything_ - you should have just..._left_ instead of responding! What did he even _say _to you in the first place?"

"He...he commented on how early I was - I said that I had a new schedule from Doctor Carter, and he asked me if I hated him for it." Sophie stops to take a deep breath, "One thing lead to another and he started..._comparing_ me to himself, then trying to convince me that I should talk to him more or something..." She is surprised at how lucid she is able to be while explaining.

Morton's anger seems to slowly develop into some sort of sympathy, though she knows he will not forget that she had gone against policy. "He _wants_ you to just, _chat_ with him?"

"Yes. I...told him that I'm not supposed to, and I didn't want to lose this job, and he said to me "you won't"...twice, I think, but when he did he said it in a voice that was..."

"...like a friend? Is that how he talked to you?"

"I don't know!"

"How do you _not know_? You obviously have had this on your mind ever since it happened!" The wrinkles around his eyes deepen, making him look more his age then ever. He glowers at her, outwardly unsure of how to react to all of this. Sophie just sits quietly in her chair, looking at the floor for the time being. Morton's shoulders go slack eventually, and he leans on one arm on the dull grey countertop. Almost in a reluctant mumble does he say, "Sorry - I know you don't need the yelling right now. I just...don't really know what to do about this."

"What you have to, I guess: telling Doctor Carter or someone." Sophie's voice is almost as quiet as her superior's. "But he's going to talk to me again - I know he is. Am I really expected to just keep my mouth shut when he says that I _hate_ humanity? He makes me sound like I belong in a cell too, sir."

Morton doesn't even correct her on her formal term for him, instead turning his forehead into his hand helplessly. "Okay," he says, then repeats, "Okay...here's what's gonna happen, now. You're going to go down to the cell right now and indulge his request - "

She interrupts, "_What_? I can't I - I can't just talk to him like he's - "

"You have and you can. I'll come in every morning and watch you over the cameras to make sure you're okay, then I'll delete the section of time you are down there so the Doc won't find out, are we clear?"

The figurative briar patch of Sophie's mind grows more tangled still, her disorientation more acute then ever. Curiously enough, the ubiquitous fear and dread she has been feeling has been replaced by this, if only for a short time - though a blessed time it is. She looks up at Morton, a truly kind soul behind the rough exterior; flawed in his reasoning, but it is for her sake. She is grateful that he is encouraging this breaking of the rules on behalf of her job and the money she so desperately needs, but is far from ecstatic at what the route entails. _Far_ from ecstatic by any means.

The man gives her another knowing, almost paternal look and says, "We're going to fix this. You won't have to worry about it for long, I bet."

...

...

...

She has a hard time believing she is doing what she is doing when she starts down the hallway, a daunting task at hand, more so then she has ever experienced before.

Willingly conversing with a mass murderer as if he is a regular man? It seems surreally impossible. It is an entirely different matter, Sophie deems, when said killer verbalizes first, poisoning her mind with words _intended_ to tear at the emotions. But making "small talk"? She isn't sure she's even got it in her - the will to summon up a subject that is light enough to qualify. All she can think about are the last few days and the mental agony that she has experienced. The cruel consciousnesses that she had discovered in her state of sleep deprivation, affecting her even as she recalls the particular instances. Her body feels heavy and her heart is troubled, each step making her feel like she is going willingly to her own execution. She senses that receiving the lethal injection would be a gentler demise.

Morton made aware to her that she is actually the only one in the building, minus him and the indolent, old security guard doing nothing for the establishment at the door. So why then would Doctor Carter tell her - through Morton, no less, who should have _mentioned _in the first place that there were to be no others with her; these people clearly put too much faith in the abilities of their staff and security cameras - that she wouldn't be alone when she _is_? Something is not right about it all, and considering that she does not much like the doctor at all these days, her displeasure with him grows. But something is _definitely_ up. She decides to leave it be for now.

Sophie finds that she is surprisingly calm when she reaches the cell, more so then she would have ever expected to be if anticipating that she would be doing this. She looks in to see that the dweller is sitting on his bed, back against the wall with his eyes closed, as per usual. She watches for a moment, conventionally, trying to ignore the sheer size of the monstrous human being, then clears her throat the slightest bit, as to gain his attention.

A low and humorless laugh fills the air, followed by the dissonant mechanized voice that has permeated her thoughts and memories. "There is no need for such caution. It neither suits you or is necessary - I already knew you were here."

"How?" she asks, for it's hard to say anything else at the time.

Without opening his eyes he raises a hand and taps one ear with his index finger. Immediately she feels incredibly stupid for asking. Had she really thought that he was so different structurally from any other living, breathing individual?

"It is not nearly time for the evening provisions, and you have already visited me once this morning. And so I theorize that you have returned to talk?" He does not wait long enough for a response before adding in a scathing fashion, "Did you not request that I stop speaking to you only days ago, and now you return, commanding my attention?"

"Yes...and no - I'm not making you do anything." Sophie is very still, as is he whom she answers. They are both as unmoving statues, wrought by two very different sculptors with visions of raw power and simplicity. "You can say "I told you so" - if you want." She's aiming to sound better then she feels, her distance from the cell helping, even if she has to raise her voice a little from its natural volume.

He laughs again, still grim like an ill omen has just fallen off her tongue and come to pass. "I could, yes," he undemonstratively declares, shifting where he sits and finally opening his eyes to absorb what lies around him, "_but_," he continues, "what good would come of it? There is no purpose in frivolity." His remorseless gaze sweeps over; he blinks, slow and deliberate. "Calm yourself." - so much for hiding the tension she feels - "I don't wish to elicit another absence due to unstable sentiments. At least not today."

A beat goes by, the awkwardness building the instant he finishes his sentence. Sophie is besieged by it, and without further contemplation on what may come of it, she pronounces, "I saw you...um...finished that book I brought you?"

"I did. An excellent work."

_What am I doing_? she thinks before saying in a rush, "Do you want more books to read?" She can't believe that she is doing so well. It is almost unbelievable that she has managed to almost get over her panic so rapidly - perhaps it is the pressure, or her atrocious habit of over thinking things.

He regards her distrustfully, brows knitting together and eyes narrowing. "So affable all of the sudden. Why? Is there something you expect to _gain_ from this? Some form of..._apology_? Your efforts are in vain if that is your intention."

Sophie draws a deep breath, "No, that's...no. I don't want an apology."

"Oh, _of course_ not!" He mocks her again, "You women just _assume_ that those of the opposite sex are "sorry" for their past words. Never needing proof, only _assuming_." Derision is not fit for such a formidable man, the sound of it unseemly as it is produced through his mask.

In a rare moment of pluck, Sophie says in an uncharacteristic tone, "I didn't really peg you for a sexist." She bites her lip after, realizing that she has just made a very blunt statement. _Things like that only get you in trouble, idiot_! _Why_, oh, _why_ did she say that? What could have possibly possessed her to say something _that_ audacious? She had gone into this convinced that she would keep to flippant subjects that would cause no harm or emotional breaking - despite when he had just said about wanting to avoid that - , but this embittered and violent man is not one for idle chitchat.

Fortunately, he doesn't seem to think too much of it. If anything, he looks fascinated by the sudden nonconforming way in which she formed the statement. "Hardly," is how he rejoins. "Humanity may do as it pleases, regardless of gender, they have only to be prepared for the results of their errant actions."

Sophie's watch reads 8:30. She decides now is the time to leave, so that Morton has the right amount of time needed to clean up the video footage so that her being here, talking to him never occurred. "I have to go," she articulates.

He is silent at first, nodding only once, but seemingly then recalls that he has left one issue unresolved and says, "I would like more reading material." No "_if it is alright_". No "_if it is not too much trouble for you_". Just a statement full of expectation that he will actually get what he wants promptly.

"I'll...I'll get on that."

And so ends the first civil exchange between the terrorist and the young woman, now a tad less frightened then she had been before.

Sophie knows more then anyone, though, that it would be unwise to think herself in the clear just yet.

...

...

...

Upstairs, Morton leans back in his chair, watching the camera feed, the screen now occupied by only the monster in the cell. He silently applauds Sophie for her composure throughout the generally courteous looking conversation, and in due course undertakes the process of erasing the evidence that she had ever visited the man for an additional amount of time.

_No one will find out. _

...

...

...

**A/N: HA-HAH! I am finished at long last with this installment! I hope you enjoyed it. I was feeling kind of poetic during certain little sections of the Bane/Sophie interaction, so if you noticed that...that is why ^.^**

**I hope to keep the plot moving. I will be trying to speed things up just a little bit in the next one, which will cover a longer expanse of time, because I'm itching to get Bane out of his cell and back into the world! I mean, obviously he can't control the girl after only a couple of talks - they need more time. I'm thinking just a couple more chapters in this environment, then I shall set Bane free! **

**Thank you for reading - would you leave a review on your way out, my friends? I would be most happy if you do so and would love you forever...in a completely non-creepy way ;)**


	10. Chapter 10 : Control

**A/N: It's been awhile, and I am sorry :( Things have piled up now that school is back in swing. Apparently, my educators think that since I'm an upperclassmen automatically means that I am completely ready to dive back into my studies the first day -_- No, teacher people. I am not. In any case, other activities have been taking up my time as well - odd considering I don't have much of a life to begin with -, but I hope to gain better management of them in the future days. I warn you though: updates may take longer now because during the school year I'm at a loss for time to sit down and write a lot.**

**Anyway, about this chapter. The first bit covers a span of about two or three weeks, because I don't want to drag this first part out much longer before the plot advances. **

**I decided to do the whole "put a fitting song quote in the beginning of the chapter thing" like a lot of other people do because...it **_**does**_** fit. It's the English translation of the song Ich Will by Rammstein. The words are so authoritative and insane, which is obviously why I used them.**

**Enjoy and do leave a review - I appreciate all of them, and would love to respond to some, so if you haven't already: ENABLE YOUR PM SO THAT I MAY REPLY :D**

**Chapter 10**

...

...

...

_I want you to trust me, I want you to believe me, I want to feel your eyes on me, I want to control every heartbeat._

_I want to hear your voices, I want to disturb the peace, I want you to see me well, I want you to understand me._

_..._

_..._

_..._

A new schedule begins to develop over the next couple of days. Sophie arrives at work at the designated earlier time, is greeted amiably by Morton - or as pleasantly as he is able to be - and then enters into the lower level of the building to go to the cell. She does not take food when she first gets there, seeing no point when she can just do it at the later, expected time and also not to arouse any suspicion. Intimidated still, for who wouldn't be, she wonders, she finds a bit of comfort in knowing that Morton is in control of the video footage and her job is in no immediate danger on account of her blatant rule breaking. But conversely, she was _told_ by her superior to do so. She does not quite know what to think about it all, other then that it is highly uncomfortable and that she is quite inept at making conversation with a terrorist, unsettled by that ever present soul-eating gaze of his, eyes his primary expresser of the occasional sentiment.

Away from work, she tries to get a hold on the poor excuse for a social life that she actually has. She makes amends with Teresa fairly quickly, still turning down the offer to go clubbing because she has never enjoyed the concept in the least. There is simply something that repulses her about being in a place filled with _eardrum-killingly _loud music and a bunch of drunk people grinding on each other every which way she looks. Teresa is merely told that the loud music gives her migraines...which it has in the past. However, the two remain friends, even if Teresa is forced to find some other acquaintances to live out her style of nightlife with. Consequently, Sophie spends most of her evenings alone, drowning in thoughts of dread for the next morning and taking large amounts of an ineffective, liquid sleep aid. She distracts herself at times with books that she purchases for dirt cheap prices off a large shelf at the library near her apartment, trashy paperback novels with predictable plots and lackluster protagonists. They only work for so long though - until her mind goes back to her job.

The dynamic stays the same for another week or so, and Sophie still feels the same as she did the first day she walked into that building, but soon, something changes. Drastically.

...

...

...

It is something he has become accustomed to. The...schedule of hers. The early morning wake ups, while some would consider them a mental and physical nuisance, are not something that has ever given him trouble, his body long adjusting to the fleeting moment of shock that comes from standing directly after coming back to the world of the lively. His caretaker, the insipid little woman, was so predictable now. At first he relied on his philosophy that no woman is unsurprising in their reactions, but after two weeks of speaking with her for about an hour every morning, he considers renouncing that notion. He credits her with but one thing: she has the intelligence not to tell him her name.

Not that Bane cares to know anyway.

_Such a listless creature is bound to have a name to suit her_...he often thinks to himself in moments of overcast levity, _Something common. Something worn-out by the years and given at an afterthought_.

He has also found that getting information about her background is proving difficult. Casual conversation can only get so much out of one party without the other party completely breaking the even-tempered atmosphere between the two. Abruptly asking a deep and personal question would shatter the _minute_ amount of trust that he has gained from her. And it _is_ minute. He counts her longer, more complex sentences in response to his inquiries about the goings on in Gotham as trust - the size of sand grains, but trust nonetheless. It is these small steps in the plan, still in the midst of its adolescence, that encourage him. It also makes his hunger for freedom grow, but he is a patient man when he must be, and continues to bide his time.

Habitually, when all other thoughts seem to slip away into the black oblivion of his mind, and the desolation of his current existence gnaws at the edges of his incentives, he thinks of Talia and what could have been.

...

...

...

"How many books have you read so far here?" Sophie asks the huge man in the cell, who shrugs.

"How am I to know? The days blur together, as does the literature."

This is how they converse. It took Sophie a long while to become more confident around him, but when the fact that he has no way of hurting her finally found its way into her thinking, she made a conscious effort to be more sociable with him. She still has no way to suppress the shudders that come over her when he says certain things in certain manners, but it was to be expected. Morton agrees that it was nothing to worry about, saying that, even having a limited understanding of the human mind, he knows that if he were in her situation that he would probably respond the same way.

The question about the books is how she starts with him one day, his answer methodical - though a bit abstract - as always. They regard each other with composure.

Then he asks, "Has your sleep improved?"

...

...

...

Bane watches as her eyes widen slightly. She is surprised, obviously. Is she so dense that she cannot tell that her lack of sleep is written across her face? Try as she might to conceal the dark circles under her eyes, her work is in vain.

"It's not that bad, really." A direct answer is evaded. _How marvelous_.

He is still the cause of her troubles, this he is aware of, but on what grounds?

"Lying will get you nowhere. Tell me the truth."

...

...

...

The truth? Sophie hasn't a clue how to say it. It is not as if she can simply tell him that being around him has been the cause of her sleepless nights. She cannot explain to him that she has lost weight because she eats rarely now as well, and consequently has been wearing a bulkier coat to a throughout her work day to hide the fact that her ribs are beginning to show. He would not be the only one to comment, but Doctor Carter would meddle as well, and she has been trying her hardest to avoid long periods of time in the presence of the psychiatrist. She especially can't give any enlightenment on the subject because she is not so sure she even _knows why_.

Crossing her arms, a bit more defensively then she ought, Sophie looks at him and says, "I haven't really slept since I got this job. Does that satisfy you?"

His brows knit together, a picture of confusion she guesses, and he leans forward from where he sits on the bench, bracing his hands on his knees. "Partially. I suppose that I am to blame, am I correct? Your restlessness is my doing?"

...

...

...

She looks as if she is going to immediately disagree, probably attempting to formulate an answer that she thinks will convince him, but Bane would not buy it. He deems it almost insulting how she thinks that she can simply lie to him like she would lie to her mother as a child. She has many ticks that he has found - movement in her fingers, shifting her diminutive weight back and forth between feet and most noticeably, a lack of visual contact in his direction, her eyes falling to the floor automatically. Dismal...oh so dismal.

In the end, however, she is truthful, saying, "Yes. It is."

"You are still afraid."

"Yes." She looks at him almost accusingly, "But who wouldn't be?"

_There are those who used to exist._

Bane stands. "Come closer." He beckons for her to approach the cell. She looks wary.

It was time to pick up the pieces of his successfully gained emotional reaction and reshape them into what he wanted them to be.

...

...

...

"I can't do that," Sophie tells him, but her resolve wavers. The frightening part is, she has no explanation as to why it does so. She can think of no logical reason why she would want to get any closer to the monster then she already is, yet somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice whispers that she should do it anyway.

"You can. The system has been long disregarded, by my observations." He is inches from the glass and metal barrier as he says this, right behind area where the food is delivered and taken away. "I have no intention of bringing you any harm. Come here." His repeated request is more intimidating and forceful.

Sophie stands on the edge of a dangerous cliff. Curiosity and a will to find serenity push her off, and she timidly draws near to the cell's wall. At this proximity she can see that he is not as tall as she originally assumed he would be - not saying much seeing how painfully short her own frame was; she was dwarfed by him notwithstanding - but it made him no less imposing. She had not gotten a good look at him before when she had been in this same immediacy with Carter.

Wordlessly, he places his hand against the glass, trailing it downwards until he reaches the open space at the bottom of the cell. There he crouches, looking very much like some sort of large predator waiting to ambush an unsuspecting victim, the mask upon his countenance menacing. Sophie recognizes then what he wants her to do. She can hear his methodic breathing, sees his steely eyes blinking every so often as he watches and waits. The age old feeling of being overwhelmed with uncertainty and trepidation engulfs her in its bleak cloud. In her hesitation the terrorist remains oddly accommodating, seeming to have the civility to let her take her time and slowly wade into the murky waters of impending bad decisions.

Crouching also, albeit slowly and insecurely, she brings herself to his level.

He reaches out his right hand through the rectangular aperture, fingers outspread unthreateningly.

_No. This isn't a good idea. _Sophie's conscience hassles, staying her own hand if only for a few seconds. _He could break your arm by flicking a finger. How utterly ridiculous are you? You need to leave now anyway - Carter could come down here any - _

Her small hand touches his.

She's not sure what she had expected - perhaps an inhuman texture to his skin? But no, the exact opposite is true, in fact, for his hand is warm and feels extraordinarily _human_. It is rough, but encompassing. It feels almost..._safe_. Her eyes widen in horror for the second time on this particular visit. How could she possibly ever even _think_ that? She is touching a hand that has more blood on it then anyone she has ever, or will ever meet in her life! She feels sick.

But at the same time feels enthralled.

His fingers curl slightly under her palm, his thumb coming to rest over the tops of her knuckles. It is the most fear-provoking and gentle moment Sophie has ever experienced. She cannot find words or any sort of mental rationalization.

...

...

...

"So you see," his voice rumbles through her, "that not all evil is constant." He brusquely withdrawals all contact with her and rises to his feet. "Your fear is of no use. It is irrational."

She is a beat behind him in standing, dazed. The look in her eyes says it all: she wanted more. He smirks beneath his mask, pleased that the strategy worked. Sitting back down on the bench, viewing the young woman in a lazy manner, he crosses his arms. She is speechless, indifferently checking her watch, then apprehending that she must leave before she is found loitering about where she ought not to be.

She throws him a glance then departs.

She would be in denial about it for a while, endeavoring to hide it and failing, but soon enough she would understand that she was part of something bigger, and would ultimately lead to his freedom.

...

...

...

**A/N: Ahhh yes, another one done! I'm so happy to be getting this to you guys! I hope you enjoy it. The last part was great fun to write :D**

**Anyways...as always, let me know what you thought of it! Getting some reviews will make my homework filled weekend more jolly haha :3**

**Have a lovely night/day!**


	11. Chapter 11 : Evil As Satan

**A/N: Is anyone still reading this? Just wonderin'.**

**Curious how I started with daily updates and now I have been reduced to monthly ones. Curious indeed. Excuse me while I go mumble about the hardships of school for a moment. **

**Anyway, yeah I'm sorry guys. I really haven't given up on this, I swear! I just have no time to write anymore and I LOATHE THAT. Seriously… I got this one done in a few days because we had off from school because of hurricane Sandy. Yes, I do in fact live on the east coast. We have weather problems :P**

**THIS chapter. Oh man, I think you guys are gonna like this one ;) I've been waiting to write this part for far too long now, I think, and I'm looking forward to seeing where it will take the rest of the story! So, if you would kindly enjoy, tell me whatcha think, and perhaps reassure me that you are still out there, you shall be given figurative sunshine and rainbows for your efforts ^.^**

**The chapter title is a song by Skrillex – look it up and your mind will be blown.**

**Chapter 11**

At times, Bane takes to pacing his cell.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

He cannot help but compare himself to a zoo animal when he does so, and wonders how long it will be until there is a visible path worn into the floor from his treading upon it.

It is an action that he does not often partake in, preferring to absorb his senses books and his own thoughts, but there are instances when all else fails, and pacing is all that he can will himself to do. He has struggled with a horrid impatience over the past year, burning within – scratching to be appeased by self-given freedom. He is a controlled, even-tempered man, disciplined in the ways of his mind and conscious of the damage his body can do. These things he has made certain of, but even the most structured of mortals retain such sins as impatience.

He recalls a time exceeding twenty years ago – nearly half of his life – when he held much less dominion over himself. Those were the days of the Pit, the days when his existence had been so simple, yet so utterly convoluted. A paradox.

It is an undeniably vivid memory.

…

…

…

_A young girl sat by his side, mirroring his hunched, exhausted posture. As was the case with nearly every day, he had fought for food again, and rendered his one arm useless for at least a good week in the process. He could not be sure what was wrong with it, but something had cracked. He felt as though he had failed the charge next to him, for without his protection and help, she was but a lamb in a den of wolves, and would be picked off before he could blink. Good souls were few, where they were._

_The lightest of touches to his right arm sent waves of pain up into his shoulder, spiraling down into his torso. He sighed, head bowing even farther in dejection. The girl looked up and watched him, disquieted by his hurt. He felt her eyes on him and met her gaze, finding anxiety there._

_"What…" she began in a whisper, as if she was afraid someone might hear her speak, "what will happen to you now?" _

_Slowly, he shook his head, "I do not know."_

_She inched closer, her voice still quiet. "Did you not say that they all want to make you go away forever? That you have made them all very angry?" She bit her lip, then tried to further,"What if…what if they…" but could not go on._

_With two fingers did he lift her chin up, his hand almost larger than her face, "Listen to me. I do not want to hear these things from you, do you understand? They will do nothing to me."_

_She managed a brave little nod of her head. "I do not want you to go away," she told him, wrapping her diminutive arms around his body, careful to avoid touching his injured arm. He blinked, momentarily taken aback by the contact, unaccustomed to it coming from her, but placed his left hand on her back nonetheless, accepting of the gesture. _

_"Do not worry. One day we will both leave this hell and be free."_

_And just as quickly as she had embraced him, she distanced herself from him once more, an indignant expression upon her childlike countenance. "Oh, I wish that day would arrive faster!"_

_Despite the pain he was in, he smiled slightly, though she could not see it through the cloth that concealed all but his eyes, allowing him to blend in more proficiently. The girl was mature in so many ways – she had to be, for there was no other option–but in others, she was still a meager child. "You must be patient. Good things come to those who wait, after all."_

_"Is that why you are patient all of the time?"_

_"I could not be. Perhaps I simply hide it well," he pointed out matter-of-factly._

_Her face lit up again, her youth making him feel rather old, despite his own young age. "I never see your face! How am I to know?"_

_He heaves another sigh, tired but good-natured. And through that sigh can be heard the faintest traces of her name, a title by which he never calls her, fearing that his caring for her might someday ruin him if the monsters of the hell they reside in should claim her._

_"Talia…"_

_She hears him, he thinks, for he sees the recognition in her eyes._

…

…

…

Sophie stares down at the tray in the kitchen. Her arm extends until her fingers are able to trace over the cylindrical objects placed in the corner of the plastic surface. She swallows, the small sound amplified through the quiet kitchen. Hearing a chuckle at the door, she spins around to see Morton standing there casually, hands in his pockets. She must look fairly startled because he laughs again. Sophie notes that he seems in a good mood...a tremendously good mood, for Morton does not laugh often, nor does he ever seem to leave the safety and security of the control room.

She has come to a point where she is irked by his presence, feeling insecure with his watching her over the security monitors.

_What right does he have_? she has thought to herself more than once when he greets her in the morning. _What right does he have to watch what I do_?

It's selfish, she knows this to be true, and improbable that it will ever change, but she wishes that he would simply cease to exist some days. She is more than capable of erasing the footage on the computers anyway, being given the proper time and motivation.

"Sorry - didn't mean to scare you there." He joins her by the counter, leaning against it and crossing his arms. She remains where she is, still too uncomfortable to be casual. "So, uh, you didn't talk to our friend today. Any reason why?"

Against her better judgment, she cocks an eyebrow, influenced by her newfound opinions of him, "I think you've got it a bit mixed up."

"Oh, do I now?"

"Yes. He - _he_ wouldn't talk to _me_ today. He just...well, paced his cell when I went down this morning."

Morton waves a hand dismissively, "Yeah, yeah I saw it all, remember? You stayed there for five minutes then left without saying anything."

"I tried. I asked him how he was doing, like I usually do. He just didn't answer." She picks up the tray and begins to move away from the counter. "I wonder why, myself."

"Probably has some god-awful complicated reason," replies Morton with a roll of his eyes, then jerking his head towards the tray in here arms. "You're doing the mask thing today?"

Silently, she nods."Doctor Carter told me that I should, _remember_? You _were_ the one who relayed the message…" Hearing her own voice she is surprised at how much annoyance she has let seep into it. _What is wrong with me_, she wonders, _I have more respect for people outright than this…even if I don't care for them._

Sophie feels a bit uneasy mentioning Carter. No one has heard or seen anything of him for over a week with the exception of Morton, who pays him regular visits at his home in the well-to-do section of Gotham, about an hour away from the facility. Morton had informed the staff that the good doctor contracted an illness and was currently bedridden. Despite her dislike of Carter, Sophie has pity for his case whenever the name arises.

Morton grins toothily, interrupting her train of thought, "That I did. Well don't let me hold you up, then!" But before she can leave, "You'll need this." She turns around and he deposits another key into her palm. She gives him an inquisitive look. "Oh, the Doc gave that to me for you."

Ah yes, the key for the small window. How _thoughtful_.

Sophie considers herself lucky to have such an amiable acquaintance on her side, despite her dislike of him.

…

…

…

She's back. Offering her a mere glance, Bane ponders how long it will be until she cracks and asks him why he is not speaking to her at the present time. It is another predictable quality of the female race: ignore them and they become very flustered. He has received his fair share of this directed sentiment, and knows how it can escalate. In this case, it seems to be working well even at the lower level of simple concern. He can see it on her face. She wonders why he is disregarding her this day when on many other days he has been cordial. Everything is going wonderfully.

She slides the tray under the barrier and waits for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders and preparing to speak, no doubt.

"Can you…um…go over to the window, please?" she asks with no small amount of timidity.

His back to her, Bane scoffs inwardly, but does what she asks, still not looking at her. He hears the small opening in the cell wall being unlocked, and then the sound as it slides open. He remains still, bracing himself for the waves of discomfort that are to follow the removal of the numbing-medication filled canisters.

"Have I done something to upset you?" the irritatingly quiet voice asks.

His displeasure reaches new heights, and it is all that he can do to resist clenching his hands into fists at his sides. It is necessary that he remain silent, his perseverance rewarded at last when she sighs softly and goes on with her business. As it turns out, she is not so incompetent as to remove both of the spent cylinders from the back of his mask at once – something that irks him greatly – but providence is on his side. As far as he is aware, she does not know that both of them have to be gone, or the intricate front conduits broken for him to experience any truly _crippling _agony.

And so, his strategy determined, he waits until he feels her light touch again...

…and brusquely slams his skull back into her hand, causing the new, minute canister to fall from her grip and roll a good distance back into his cell.

Step one: completed.

He turns around, eyes widening a fraction with both anger and alarm. He has instilled guilt.

Step two: completed.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! If you just pick it up for me I could – "

She cuts herself off as he is brought to the floor by pain, bracing himself with his arms upon the cold concrete. It is not difficult to make it seem as if it is unfeigned, Bane having underwent it in actuality numerous times throughout his life. His breathing increases, strained as it would be if it were a real situation.

_It will not be long now_…

…

…

…

Sophie does not know what to do. She considers running to get Morton, but he seems rather cold concerning the treatment of the terrorist, and probably would choose to remain up in the security room, simply watching. This thought reminds her that if he wanted to be down here, he would have done so by this point. She stands utterly still, her heart racing. Her hands begin to beat against her hips as she inwardly panics, not fully mindful of what will happen if she lets the man in the cell continue to suffer. He looks up at her through his torment and in his eyes she sees something very vulnerable, the emotions of someone who begs her trust for just one instance.

Her memory flashes back to a time of the past and the mass murderer's words.

_"You loathe people – you find them insufferable and condemned, just as I do."_

She thinks back to Morton and her abrupt irritation for him, not exactly positive why it came about until now. She recalls her aversion for Doctor Carter, with his meddlesome ways and formerly constant manifestation.

He had been right.

He had been right all along.

Before she can stop herself she has found herself over at the keypad next to the door, entering the ten digit passcode she has engrained in her mind never to use. She can almost hear Morton and the other employees yelling at her to stop from the control room, but pays the voice no heed as the electronic door gradually slides open. Sophie slips inside the cell without a single inhibiting meditation. She picks up the canister from where it has come to a stop – the other new one safe in her pants pocket - and approaches the rapidly weakening detainee.

Taking a deep intake of breath, she sites a hand on one of his massive shoulders. Immediately he stops moving, crouched on the floor, seeming overwhelmed.

"It's okay…let me help you."

His eyes flick up to glare at her. They are remorseless.

…

…

…

Bane shatters his pretense as soon as the young woman lays a hand on him, raising his eyes to glower at her from his position on the floor.

The third and final step will presently come to pass.

…

…

…

Sophie has but a second to realize what she has done before his hands are around her neck.

He lifts her off the floor like a child's toy and slams her into the nearest wall. Her head collides with the impermeable surface with a _crack_. Tears sting her eyes as black clouds her vision. She cannot breathe and knows that the terrorist does not care at all. Her own hands latch onto his forearms, diminutive nails piercing the skin in her desperation to support herself.

He appears bored, when she gets a fleeting look at his face.

_Where ARE the other people who work here_?! she mentally yells, despairing.

"Stop your struggling," he commands, gradually increasing the pressure on her throat, "unless of course you beseech death for your foolishness."

Sophie does as he orders, and is rewarded only marginally when he lowers her to the floor, not releasing his hold on her neck but lessening his grip. Everything starts to spin; her legs start to give out, but she is forced to remain standing.

"Let her go!" shouts a brave soul from outside the cell. They both look. It seems the people who work at the facility have finally summoned the courage to come and confront their prisoner. There are eight armed, white clad men with their weapons trained on Sophie's attacker waiting for a response to the directive.

Sophie is released, doubling over, as he approaches the obviously inexperienced excuses for security.

"All of you have such valor…" he drawls, eyeing them. One imprudent man cracks and fires the pistol he holds in his shaking hands. The bullet, aimed poorly, strikes the terrorist on the left side of his upper body right above the collarbone. He jolts when it makes impact, but slowly continues to approximate himself to them. Sophie watches. "Dauntless men who advance upon the enemy without fear. Gotham, gentleman, should be proud to have you."

Sophie stiffens as Morton arrives on the scene, gun in hand and expression shaken. Two other men follow shortly after. He instantaneously looks to her, "Are you alright, Miss Scott?"

But before she could formulate a reply, "Mr. Phillips, I'm quite surprised."

Morton scowls at him, raising his firearm, "Stay back, or I swear to God I will put a bullet in your head."

Like so many times before, his eyebrows raise scathingly. "Do it then."

The other man starts to pull the trigger, but Sophie sees what he cannot: a slight flick of the terrorist's fingers.

She screams, "_No! Get out of the_ – "

The two armed men why just arrived turn and fire on Morton, the sound drowning out her warning and filling him with bullets until the cartridges of their handguns are empty. Morton collapses to the floor, crimson blood pooling under his lifeless body. The defectors reload their weapons and take aim at the rest of the man.

Her mouth agape in sick disbelief – for she is unable to do anything more – Sophie turns her gaze to the other eight men, uncertain of their loyalties now.

"Now," the madman furthers with his attention back on Sophie, close enough to the individual who shot him to pluck the pistol from its owner's quivering hands, "you will finish your job." He indicates to his mask. A flicker of hope that develops is quashed when he adds, "And if you should attempt to evade your duties…" In a flash his hands are around the man's neck and there is a nauseating crack as it is twisted and broken. Sophie's whole body spasms as another one falls to the floor, lifeless.

Two men dead.

Two men working for the murderer.

And seven men who have nearly been reduced to sniveling boys.

The whole situation feels like a nightmare, and Sophie wishes that it somehow is, the product of copious amounts of sleeping medication, she tries to rationalize. Within the depths of a long traumatized brain, she hopes that the future will be kind. Many times does she think that she might make it out of this alive and equally as many times does she doubt. If – and she admits this with a sentiment of embarrassment for her lack of perception – this monster had been shaping her mind over such a long period of time, then he would have to be _exceedingly_ anxious to leave, not letting the fact that she was a relatively innocent, younger woman stop him in his efforts.

She cannot focus her contemplations on one subject. Everything is gnarled. What she had once assumed is no more, and she comes to the bleak realization that she is very foolish indeed, just like he had told her.

He is watching her still, awaiting her response to his threat, savoring the tension that surrounds them all.

"I'll – I'll finish it..."

"Good," he says, throwing a glance at the two who work for him then returning to his original place in front of her, back to her this time so that she may do her job.

Sophie's fingers shake as she does so, and when she is through, she lets the two expended cylinders drop to the floor. They hit it with a dull _ping_, echoing around the space in the silence. She hears him inhale and exhale with what sounds much like relief.

She knows that she should not be surprised when he takes hold of her again, holding her to him with the crook of his arm, cutting off her air supply once more. "Thank you for your generous hospitality," mocks the terrorist as he drags Sophie out of the cell with him, taking care to keep her in front of him at all time, a small human shield. To those at his call he says with palpable amusement, "You may kill them now, at your leisure."

The other seven drop like flies before more than three of them can even open fire.

Sophie is taken away from the scene, praying that some more armed individuals are waiting to shoot the madman dead on sight at the top of the stairs, though the chances of him actually succumbing to mere bullets are slim.

What she sees in the control room is akin to something out of a horror film. Time seems to slow. Bodies cover the floor, the once white coats that adorned them covered in red. Blood is _everywhere_. Sophie blanches and nearly gags, the bile she has been holding back threatening to transpire. She heaves against the sustained pressure on her throat. Her imprisoner stops just before the doorway to the staff lounge, letting her go.

"Your assistance is _most_ appreciated, _Miss Scott_." Her skin crawls when he refers to her by an actual title. She can't discern whether or not the statement is made in earnest. He regards her with an odd mixture of aggression and precision, giving off the impression that he wanted to be rid of her. He glances at the two doorways to make certain that no one else is present. "You will live, I have decided," he cants his head to the side, "But if you speak to the authorities you will be quite sorry, I can assure you of that."

Then, he took up her hand in his own, as if in a perverse reenactment of the former time. He held her gaze, she felt a split second of unbearable force beneath her ear and between her jaw and neck, and then there was only darkness.

…

…

…

**A/N: Geez…this is probably the longest chapter I have, and the hardest to write for sure. It had about five different ways it could have gone. I hope you guys liked it! **

**Did you enjoy the flashback scene? I usually don't like writing nice!Bane but the idea popped into my head and wouldn't go away...You know how it is -sighs-**

**Sophie is one confused gal right now, as you can see. We'll get more of her inner, perplexed reactions to what happened in the next one. Yes, Bane is, indeed free. What fun I shall have now hehe :3**

**I hope to hear some feedback from you all, because reviews make me onnne happy camper ^.^**

**Have a lovely mornoonevening, to quote Jim Carrey :D**


	12. Chapter 12 : Trouble, Trouble, Trouble

**A/N: Thank you very much for the feedback, you guys! -gives love- We've broken 200 reviews and I CANNOT BELIEVE IT! Thank you, thank you, thank you!**

**I am most sorry that I did not get this out earlier. I had over half of it completed about a month ago over Thanksgiving break but didn't pick up on it again until…well…today –traces awkward circle on the ground with foot- **

**Someone asked if Sophie is dead. To that: nope. If I had killed her off this early I would have to be really lazy and lack motivation :P She'll be fine, as you shall see in this chapter.**

**It will be a while before she sees Bane again, but all is not lost! I'll keep up with him, following his life/plans after his escape, some of which I think you fill find most enjoyable! Now, without further or do, onwards we venture!**

**Chapter 12**

"_Sophie_…"

The voice is far away, unable to be perceived in its entirety. Surrounded in the murky blackness, she cannot distinguish who is speaking to her.

"_Sophie_…"

There it is again. She determines that it is female, but who could possibly be –

"Sophie, come on!" And all at once, the echoes have stopped, and the voice is boisterous in her ear, quite painful actually. "Wake up! You have to wake up now."

She feels her eyelids shut tighter against the light that tries to permeate them as she comes to. "O-okay…" she moans. A migraine hits her as she utters the one, simple word, surfacing another expression of pain. "_Just_…just give me a…a minute here. _Wha_ - "

A pair of arms abruptly wraps around her body. "You have no idea how scared I was there, Sophie!"

Sophie can't seem to summon the strength to push her friend away. "Teresa stop…_stop_." The arms retract. At last she opens her eyes and is met by a worried face and a nondescript grey ceiling beyond. "Where am I?" as if the steady beeping off to her right and the needle on the inside of her arm is not a direct giveaway.

Teresa runs her hands through her hair, looking vexed. "I got a phone call from _your _number from someone – a kind of low, raspy voiced guy, could barely understand him. He said that you were out cold in your apartment and that I should come down right away. I had no idea what to do when I got there, the guy who called was gone, so I brought you to the hospital."

_She didn't know what to do…? _Sophie's mind repeats, _She has a degree in physical education and she didn't know what to do…?_

"And…what did they say?"

A grim laugh. "They didn't want to take you in at first" – not a surprise in the least – "and said something about not having enough rooms to take another patient." Again, not a surprise. Gotham is still not a trustworthy place to live, and with the Dark Knight gone for good, crime and grievances to the recipients of crime are on a drastic ascension. The hospital simply has too many patients now to take them all in, even Sophie had known that. "But they eventually got you a room after I refused to leave."

"No, I mean, am I okay?"

"Oh, yeah. They said that you're lucky you don't have a concussion. Whoever knocked you out knew what they were doing. Can you remember anything?"

Sophie thinks it's in her best interest to keep everything vague, "It's a little fuzzy, to tell you the truth. I think I got hit during a…_mugging _or something."

The other woman does not look convinced with the answer – odd due to the fact that attempted muggings in Gotham happen almost as often as _deaths_ – but asks, "How'd you get up to your room them?"

"I – I don't know." She plans on leaving it at that, but adds at the last second, "There _are_ _some _good people in this city…"

Crossing her arms, Teresa fixes Sophie with a concerned stare. "You know what gets me? Who was the guy who called me, you think? He sounded like some foreign, older guy with lung cancer."

_You have no idea, Teresa_. _No idea whatsoever_.

"That would be…weird," Sophie chuckles, trying to no avail to hide the nervousness in her voice.

Teresa grunts noncommittally as she fiddles with the remote to the small TV mounted on the wall in the far corner of the room. She finally succeeds in turning it on, the first channel being the news. The broadcast is live from – _where else_? –the building that all the action has just taken place at. How long has it been? Sophie's exhausted eyes search for a clock, and finding one eventually, sees that it is just a little after eight-thirty in the evening. She's too tired to try and take it all in at once.

"Soph, are you seeing this? It's been all over the news today!" Teresa cranks up the volume a bit louder than Sophie likes.

"_You're watching GBS news live on location,_" a severe looking man in a black coat states clearly into the large microphone he is holding. "_After a stunning series of events this morning, all of Gotham is asking: _where is Bane_? The terrorist allegedly escaped earlier today from the facility he was being held in, the building behind me_" – he gestures to it – "_and his whereabouts are currently unknown. As far as the authorities are aware, all witnesses were killed within the building during the escape, with the exception of two guards and a young woman whose identity has not been released. Their locations are not known at this time either, though they are potentially linked to this menace's breakout_…"

Sophie tunes out whatever else the live reporter says as she fights the urge to vomit. The authorities know that she worked there? She mentally scolds herself. Of course they do! The _president_ could potentially know who she is! She goes over how many times she was told that she could not speak of what she was doing or saw lest she betray national security or something along those lines. And they though that she might have had a part in that crazy man's escape?

But she _had_. Not really, no. Sort of. _Inadvertently_. How was _she_ to know that his frenzied and painful reaction to lacking one of the medical canisters was false?

She shuts her eyes for a blessed second and wishes for a blissful Vicodin high.

"Ridiculous, huh?" Teresa is saying, and Sophie snaps back to reality. She gives an impassive little nod, which prompts her friend to say, "You okay? You seem a little freaked out about this – it'll be fine! Why would someone like _Bane_ target either of us?"

_Again I reiterate: you have _no_ idea._

Absentmindedly, she raises a hand to the spot under her ear where the pain is originating from and, finding it tender and swollen, drops her arm immediately after. She knows she ought to be startled , shocked even that the mass murderer had not only let her live when all the other inhabitants of the building were slaughtered, but had possessed the courtesy of depositing her at her own house and calling Teresa on her behalf?

Despite these thoughts, all she responds with is a, "Mmh..." for another thought has popped into her throbbing skull, one that chills her to the bones and then some.

_He knows where I live_.

…

…

…

Bane watches the city go by through heavily tinted car windows. He sits in the back seat, degrading himself only for a time as his two men – named Anthony and Warren, he has found out – masquerade as meager Gotham citizens out for a drive. They have informed him – quite reverently with their gazes anywhere but upon his face – that there has been a location for him secured in the city limits, a particularly seamy neighborhood, from the sounds of it. It is something that Bane, himself is fine with, having no will to make a spectacle of himself for the time being. The end of his laying in waiting has led to more, evidently, but being a _generally _patient man has its benefits in times such as these.

They had deposited the woman, Miss Scott as it is, as her apartment complex only a short time ago, and he is rather amazed at how straightforward it had been, for hauling an unconscious body into a building is not something people look upon and find normal. People were at work, he reasoned, why would they be hanging about in their apartment areas unless they were elderly or infirmed? In any case, he had removed her from the back of the unassuming vehicle upon arrival and slung her body carelessly over one shoulder; she was very light – he could lift more than her weight on an exceptionally bad day using only one arm.

After unceremoniously kicking her door in, he had quite literally dropped her in her room, known after some careful observation from his men, and quickly leafed through a small book of contacts next to her wall phone, searching for one name: Teresa Price, a close confident of the unconscious woman. When the number had been found, he dialed it and waited.

"Sophie! Oh thank God! I was getting really worried with everything on the news about Bane's escape!"

He had cocked an eyebrow. _It was on the news already_? Had Gotham learned _nothing_ about panic and fear in the past year? They knew not what they were getting into.

"No, I'm afraid this is not she," he had said clearly into the phone, enunciating each word.

A pause. "Who's this?"

"That would depend. Is this Miss Price?"

"Yes – _who is this_?" She had sounded a bit spooked, not that he could blame her, even though she did not know that it was actually _him_. His reputation preceded him. Even his name mentioned on a news program or featured in a paper could spark alarm.

"Do not be alarmed. I have just discovered your friend, Miss Scott, unconscious in her apartment. I suggest you come care for her."

"But how – what's wrong with her?! _Who are you_? How did you get into her apartment?! I'm on my way right now – I just…"

He had chuckled softly and then told her jauntily, "Be safe out on the streets, Miss Price. These _are_ dangerous times, after all."

"_Wait I _– "

Bane had hung up the phone then and left the apartment without even a further glance at the young woman's body, contented to be rid of the liability and ready to disappear.

He predicts now that he will never see her again and is rightly gratified with the prospect, pushing both her and the conversations they had shared from his memory with fervor. She has no effect on him at all, but even still, knowing her is a proverbial millstone and he begins to have regrets about not merely snapping her neck and ending it. Outwardly, he is complacent as these misgivings seep into his mind, the only giveaway being the slight flexing of his fingers on the seat beside him.

He clears his thoughts, focusing instead on the future and what it will entail. With the authorities aware of his escape, they will be on high alert and the entire city will be in a state of lockdown, thusly all the main bridges will be _severely_ monitored. Behind the mask on his face, Bane grinds his teeth together broodingly – what to do, what _not_ to do? There are so many…_creative _options. He will have limited time to make his way out of the city after arriving at his destination, for one can only hide from the police for so long before they receive some anonymous tip or lead.

He leans forward and claps a hand on the shoulder of the man in the passenger's seat, Anthony. "How much further is it?" he inquires, tone good-natured.

Anthony swallows hard for an instant, surprised. "Not far now."

"And who of consequence has survived to meet us when we arrive?" _Survived_, in this sense, refers not only to those who have lived, but also to those who are not impounded as he speaks.

The driver, Warren answers this time. "No one important."

_Interesting_, he thinks. _They were not as strong as I had anticipated_…

Loyal allies are difficult to find, and he can only hope - for the sakes of the two men sitting in front of him - that there is a substantial group of new recruits waiting for him.

…

…

…

The car pulls up to an abandoned, dilapidated house near the water in a poor district. No one is out and about, giving the area an unsettling atmosphere. Bane opens the car door himself, brushing off Anthony's pathetic attempts at treating him like some sort of royalty. He does not fancy himself in such a fashion and knows that he never _will_. With the two men behind him, he makes his way up the rickety, wooden steps, making them creak warningly under his weight. His hand grasps the doorknob and turns it, pushing the door leisurely inwards.

Its progress is impeded by a body. A large man leans out, obstructing his view of what is within. He takes a long look at the terrorist's face and his eyes suddenly widen. Is he so _thick_ that he is not aware of Bane's escape? _Are these the fools that I will be managing…_? He wonders with a hint of disenchantment, crossing his arms.

"Are you not going to let me in? I find your lack of regard troubling."

The door is opened all the way for him, and this time, he accepts the gesture without comment or action. The ambiance is wretched and uncivilized, the building filled with filthy, vulgar excuses for people. There are many inside, chiefly made up of men, but Bane spots the odd woman here and there. Most have beer bottles in their fists and cigarettes between their teeth. Some are draped across the threadbare couches that appear every so often and some sit in circles on the floor gambling away petty items with playing cards.

But when he steps inside, they all turn to see who has arrived in unison, those who were seated rising to their feet in the same way when they see him. Cards are dropped and bottles are lowered. _There are some young ones here_…he notes, looking upon a few adolescent faces. They would not have been permitted to join the ranks if he'd had even the slightest amount of control over the situation while confined. He does not want children doing the accursed work of men – it is not in his nature, and though he does not deny his callousness concerning human existence, he will not directly harm one in their youth. It has been one of the few things that he has held true to dating back to the time of the Pit.

"My brothers," he begins, then spying one of the women, adds, "…and sisters, I have been away for some time now, but in that time I have had much to think upon." His gaze sweeps over them. "The time has come. We must leave Gotham."

The murmurs are expected, and Bane nods in response to them.

"Where are my foreign informants? Have they yet returned?"

Out towards him step three men. They all hail from European countries.

"That will be all," he states to the onlookers, and to the informers he says in a lower tone, "You three will come with me."

…

…

…

Sophie is released from the hospital not long after awakening. Her doctor had told her to keep taking Ibuprofen for the headaches caused by the injury and to call right away if anything else strange occurs. What irritated her was the underlying sense of "_try not to need us because we don't really want you here_" in the doctor's voice. This thought is a scanty breather before her rattled brain kicks into a worried overdrive again.

Teresa is walking beside her on their way to the elevator. She is texting her mother, probably telling her that Sophie is okay, or something along those lines. Sophie decides to forgo asking, and keeps her eyes on the elevator door at the end of the hallway.

"So as soon as you get home, I want you to sleep now, you hear me?" Teresa insists.

"Mmhmm."

Sophie didn't really hear a word her friend had said just then.

"And also make sure to lock your door because it's kind of scary how that guy who called me was able to just walk in and…" It goes on and on like this all the way down to the ground floor. All Sophie wants is some time in a quiet environment to sort out the state of affairs. This notion makes her walk a bit faster out to Teresa's car after signing out at the front desk.

Teresa is still talking, "…it's just that I'm not really sure that where you live is the best place for – " but stops abruptly. "Why are there policemen waiting beside my car?"

"_What_?" Sophie's head snaps up to look where Teresa is pointing. Lo and behold, there they stand, intimidating as always.

When they reach the vehicle, they are met by humorless expressions and the sentence that Sophie has been dreading.

"Sophie Scott, you are going to have to come in with us immediately for questioning."

"Whoa, hold on! What's going on?" Teresa looks painfully confused.

The other of the two officers speak. "Miss Scott is under investigation concerning the escape of Bane earlier this morning."

Teresa's mouth drops open at this. She looks back and forth from the policemen to Sophie. "What are they talking about, Soph? Is this some kind of sick joke, because I don't think you should be – "

Sophie silences her. "Stop Teresa. I'm going with them. Just go home and I'll call you later, I promise."

"But I – "

"You need to go home now. You can't do anything about this."

The betrayal in her friend's eyes sends her on a sickening guilt trip, but she follows the officers to the police car and slides into the back seat like some common criminal without further comment. She fiddles with the seatbelt and sighs, noticing then that she is not alone. To her left, there sits a man, young and on the handsome side she absently supposes, but from him there radiates an air of superiority. He has a pair of brown eyes that look at her with the indifference one of his presumed position should have.

He offers her his hand in greeting, "Hello Miss Scott, my name is John Blake. We have a lot to talk about."

…

…

…

**A/N: How do you like that?! For you Blake fans out there, he will be playing an important role in this from here on out!**

**I sincerely hope you enjoyed this and that you are all still out there! Please do review for me, dearies!**

**And in case I do not update again during my break, have a most lovely Christmas season, yes? :D**


	13. Chapter 13 : Found

**A/N: Okay my friends. I shan't waste time with a long explanation as to my absence, so I'll simply say: school. I hope you understand. **

**Shout out to all my anonymous reviewers. You rock.**

**Anyway about this chapter. It's kind of…slow, but necessary and informative. The next one will be more action-y as Bane does…****_Bane-ish_**** sorts of things ;3 Enjoy and leave me some reviews if you will, dears.**

**Chapter 13**

The police station seems to be hours away even though the man sitting next to Sophie is some kind of saint. Upon his introduction, first impressions aside, John Blake actually turns out to be a generally personable fellow. He smiles at all the right times, chuckles occasionally to lighten the mood Sophie gives off and controls the topics they make light conversation of – or rather, what _he _talks about and what Sophie gives the infrequent one-word answer to – making sure that they do not stray into the _real_ reason she is in the back seat of a cop car on her way to the Gotham City station.

"Do you have any siblings, then?" Blake asks nonchalantly.

Sophie has to stop chewing on her lip and avoiding eye contact with him to produce a verbal answer. "Uh, yes. I have one sister but I, um don't see her…ever."

His knowing eyes bore into her and she has to look away. _He's a cop…he's a cop…he's a cop…_She keeps repeating over and over to defuse the tension. _I'm probably going to jail and he's being nice to try and make everything better…_

"You?" she inquires after a bit.

"Have any siblings?" Her nod prompts him onward. "Not that I know of. No parents either."

The whole rest of the ride is spent like this. Sophie starts to wish that he would just stop with the pleasantries and tell her what the authorities know about her. She has to put on a face – act like she's doing okay when she is really a complete mess inside. She surmises that she _has been _since taking that job. She should have been able to tell that she was neither emotionally nor mentally qualified to deal with someone of the terroris- no, _Bane_'s disrepute.

When the car pulls up to the station, Sophie wants nothing more than to remain in the safety of the vehicle, but Blake is having none of it, his oddly sunny demeanor all but gone and replaced by the unbiased man he is supposed to be. The one she first saw when she slid into the back seat. She knows he can see the discomfort on her face as he opens the door for her and waits for her to step out. The light hits her unwelcomingly when she places her feet upon the pavement and rises. Her vision wavers for an instant and she regrets leaving the hospital so early. Releasing a pent-up breath, she nods at Blake and he gestures for her to go on ahead of him.

The doors of the police headquarters are opened by the two other officers that had been in the front of the car and what can only be described as a walk of shame commences. Glances, some fleeting, some judgmental and lingering are thrown at her. She has never experienced this before, and hopes to never experience it again if she can manage to clear this whole mess up. _If_, being the key word. Presently, there is a door, which Blake steps around her to open.

It is a plain, dull space with one metal table and two chairs, rather cliché, very much like what Sophie has seen in cop shows on nights when she has nothing else better to do but rot away in front of the television. She pulls one chair out for herself on her own as Blake does the same with the other, placing a nondescript manila folder atop the table. Sophie wonders where he had gotten it so quickly. Involuntarily, she runs one hand through her hair, her fingers snagging almost instantaneously. Inwardly, despite herself, she huffs; she doesn't want to look like some crackhead-whore from the Narrows if she's in serious trouble. _Why did I not think to brush my hair at least before I left the hospital_…_?!_

And who is she kidding? She is in deep, _deep _trouble.

Blake opens the folder, scanning the paper on the top of the stack…because apparently Sophie suddenly has a _stack_ of papers on her?

"Sophie Lynne Scott – 27. Grew up in Trenton, New Jersey. Went to a community college right outside the city and got a degree in Greek mythology. No criminal record whatsoever and minimal friends." He looks up at her with a raised eyebrow, "Do you want me to continue?" It's a rhetorical question. "Why would someone like you associate or even _consider_ a job that involved associating with a terrorist like Bane?"

_Well, when you put it like that_…a voice in the back of Sophie's head whispers. Her gaze is glued to the table as she formulates a reply. Eventually, "I didn't know at the time what would happen as a result."

"No, you didn't," Blake agrees, "because you weren't told the appropriate details the government required whoever they hired for their little experiment to be told."

This catches her attention. "_What_…?"

He nods. "They didn't comply with the regulations set up by the boys down in DC."

"Like, what exactly?"

Blake proceeds to lightly hand her a paper with a detailed list on it. "Everything is here. I think the first major point will give you an idea."

She read the indicated point to herself.

'_The subject, Bane, is to be contained within his cell at all times. The two-way mirror wall is to be in place at all times. The employee to be hired is to never see the subject, but he will always see her in order for the desired effect to be achieved._'

Sophie's eyes are as wide as saucers when she looks up at the man across the table from her. "I don't understand…" She feels utterly inane saying those three words and adds with a brow furrowed in confusion, "I was never supposed to see him?"

Indicating his confirmation of the statement, the cop says, "Yes. Before you were hired, an inspector from the government was sent out to observe the living conditions and to make sure that the rules were being followed. At the time, everything was good and they gave them the green light."

"So, you're saying that in the time between that inspection and my getting the job, someone got rid of that special barrier?"

Blake's expression is grim. "Yeah, I'm afraid so. That, among other things. It's all on that paper," his index finger taps the list in front of her, "security cameras and systems that were never installed, armed guards that were never at their posts, and, most noticeably, no background checks and forged papers on the staff."

Sophie cringes, remembering how the two workers had been Bane's men in the end.

Blake is thumbing through the papers. He finds the one he is apparently looking for. "Morton Phillips," he reads. There is a picture of Sophie's deceased boss at the top. She cannot help but feel guilty for disliking him so much. "Real name" – her thoughts are stopped short – "Benjamin Augustine. He used to be a superintendent for one of the factories in Gotham which ironically manufactured security appliances, but was fired and treated in Arkham after showing signs of severe mental issues. That was where Bane found him…months before he made his first appearance."

"_Mr. Phillips, I'm quite surprised…_" the madman had said when Morton, now Benjamin had come onto the scene, like it was going against his plans. Like he didn't _expect_ the man to point a gun at him and threaten his life. Sophie decides to keep that bit of information to herself for the time being.

"Didn't anyone notice that he wasn't qualified?" she asks at length, letting her train of thought carry on.

"Evidently not. Our investigations haven't proved very helpful but we're thinking that they brought him in a few days before you started working there. The system was botched – the only records we could find," he pauses as he finds another paper with someone's profile on it, "were the hours of this man. Doctor Gabriel Carter."

Sophie braces herself for the worst, but it comes in a different form then what she expects.

"Don't worry, he wasn't in on this thing. He was the only one out of all of the workers at that facility to have a legitimate degree to his name, though from the records we found that he had also been hired after the government inspection."

"_Was_…?"

"Yes. He's dead." This hurts more than it should. "His body was found yesterday in his apartment when a concerned neighbor called in. Looked to be an overdose; he'd been there for weeks."

A low gasp, "You think he was murdered?"

Blake replies, "Oh, no doubt. I mean, the guy wasn't informed of the whole conspiracy plot, but he would have eventually figured something was up. They had to get him out of the way before he got suspicious."

It all made sense now. It explained why Carter had never tried to enforce the barrier between her and Bane. Moreover, it showed that she was not the only victim in this scheme. That there was a light at the end of the tunnel that lead to a potential way out.

"Uh, my friend, Teresa, had a call this morning, I think you should know. I think it was from…him."

"Why?" Blake is interested now. He leans forward slightly and gives her his full attention.

Sophie wonders if this is wrong, getting Teresa involved when she clearly has no idea what is going on. "I'm pretty sure, I mean, I _know_ that Bane took me back to my apartment after escaping. I was unconscious, he had knocked me out after telling me he wouldn't kill me, but Teresa told me this morning in the hospital that she got a call from a guy from my number, telling her to come and get me…"

Blake's eyebrow slowly rises as she is speaking, to which she inquires, "You didn't know any of this? Wasn't there footage from the security room?"

"There weren't any cameras in there. That was one of the places they conveniently overlooked." He stares at her again, "This is news to me. We'll have to get your friend down here to chat."

"Does she…does she have to be involved?"

Neatly placing all the papers back into the folder, he shuts and smooths his hands over it, saying, "I don't see how she can't be, now. I'm sorry about all of this, Miss Scott, but you've done the right thing by being so cooperative. Just know that you are not in trouble as of now – you are a victim that deserves retribution, and we're going to try our hardest to give that to you."

His words give her peace, something she has been in desperate need of.

…

…

…

Bane steps into the private room, designated as his. His eyes scan the nearly empty space for a moment or two before he decides that it will suffice for the short time that he is still in this retched city. He makes his way over to the adjoining bathroom and closes the old door behind him. It creaks in protest but complies accordingly albeit no one will disturb him until he summons them again. Near the faucet of the sink he places a small razor blade, a needle and some surgical thread. Privacy ensured, he braces his hands on the sink and inhales deeply. His breath is unsteady as he lets it out, hissing through the mask on his face. He raises two fingers to his chest, his touch feather light upon the now long-dried bullet wound.

The blood has solidified on both his skin and the entire upper half of the black wife beater. Irritating, but not a foreign concept in the least for one who perceives acts of violence as a second nature.

Gripping the bottom of the shirt, Bane pulls it over his head with deliberate gradualness, paying care that the fabric's adhesion to the broken skin of the bullet's entrance point does not cause more problems than it ought. After a woefully long period of time, he drops the beater to the bathroom floor and leans towards the grimy mirror to assess the damage.

The wound is small and easily dealt with; not very deep – all blood, seemingly. Slowly he turns on the water, lowering his torso closer to the sink to wash it off. His mind goes back to the meeting he'd had just moments before with his men from Europe.

_They had been gathered around a map._

_"You," he had addressed the last man, "Where was your post?"_

_"Southwestern Europe, sir," the man had responded quickly. _

The sink is red as the bloody water flows down the drain. Bane looks upon it, unfazed as he continues to carefully clean out the injury in preparation.

_"And do you have anything to report?" he had went on to ask._

_"Yes sir," the man had said, indicating a specific country on the map._

_Bane's eyes had landed on the spot and narrowed. _

The wound is now more easily perceived, and he picks up the razor blade between two fingers, deftly going to enlarge the aperture. The bullet must be removed so that the damage can heal properly. The skin around the bullet hole is severely inflamed, but he cannot feel it as he slices is open further.

_"What have you seen here, brother?" he demands of his operative._

_The man's expression is lively then, "Many things..."_

_"People of interest?"_

_"Yes," and he had taken a breath, as if he was about to reveal a great secret. _

The bullet hits the ceramic bowl with a slight _plink_. There is more blood than before to wash off, but the most difficult part is over. After staunching the blood flow once more and tidying up the sink area – Bane likes to keep a neat residence, after all – he sets out to sew up the cut, threading the needle and piercing the skin. Loop after loop he makes, a precise, black thin line forming. He severs the thread with the razor blade after tying it off and looks to the mirror to study his work. It is not perfect, but has been done in a deft enough manner that it will be only a scar in two weeks.

Nodding at his reflection, he retrieves the black shirt from the floor, gathers up the four objects – including the bullet itself – from the sink and strides to the door, resolving to locate another shirt. There is much that must be done.

_The man had looked at Bane without fear, and from his mouth comes the words, "I found him. He is alive."_

_Bane had not believed it at first. "That is…impossible. I was informed that he was dead."_

_"No, sir. I have seen him. It _is_ him."_

_The terrorist had taken a minute to process it all, turning his back on the spies. When he had come to terms with this information, he had returned to the map, studying the location in silence, as if it could tell him something more, then he had gradually looked up at them and said, "Go tell the others the plans have changed. In three days' time, we leave for Europe."_

_The spies had left him alone in the room, his eyes coming to rest once more on the map. _

_And in the dimness he says to himself, "Italy – so that is where you think you can hide…Mr. Wayne."_

_…_

_…_

_…_

**A/N: Yes. That just happened.**

**I hope you liked this one and I hope the ending made up for all the information, but I enjoyed writing John Blake. I tried to keep him in character, but there wasn't a whole lot of character development in TDKR for him anyway, so I figure I couldn't do any real harm ;)**

**The whole conspiracy plot thing was a NIGHTMARE to write. There was so much I wanted to put in but I had to cut it back or else it would have taken me another few months haha! In any case I hope it was acceptable.**

**Thank you so much for reading this! I hope you can find the love in you to leave a review. The encouragement I have been receiving as of late has been really motivating me. I love you all!**

**I hope to get back to you soon – have a good one.**


	14. Chapter 14 : Flight

**A/N: Awww geez folks. I'm back ;) You better be ready for stuff to go DOWN. This chapter honestly gave me troubles, which is why it took so long to write. I couldn't get any of my plans for it nailed down and just recently - like...yesterday - solidified my ideas and started writing it again. I hope you all enjoy it :)**

**Chapter 14**

"Okay, so wait," says Teresa, hands on her temples, "you...were working for...Bane? _The _Bane?"

Sophie grimaces and snaps, "_No_, Teresa. It wasn't _for_ him. It was for the people who were keeping him locked up. It was a - kind of a social experiment, I think. Have you been listening _at all_?"

Teresa doesn't look convinced, and Sophie nearly starts grinding her teeth. The other woman had arrived ten minutes prior to Sophie's shortened tale of woe. John Blake had left the two of them alone for a bit so she could inform Teresa about what was going on before any actions were taken.

Sighing, Sophie's friend's shoulders sink and she lifts her hands from her face in defeat. "Y'know what, I'm sorry. This is just..._wow_ this is a lot to take in on such short notice."

"I know, and I didn't want you to be involved, but if its any consolation it means a lot that you're here." _Because honestly, who else do I really have_?

A slight smile is the only thing Teresa gets in before Blake enters the room again, sans any files.

"I trust you've been informed?" he addresses Teresa, who signals a 'yes'. "Good. Because if what we're thinking is right, then this guy is going to try and leave the city within the next couple days." He let that sink in for a beat. "Now, the main setback we have is that we won't know how this is going to go down until it does, so I need your ladies' help."

Sophie sighs inwardly; she had originally expected to merely be interrogated and dealt with according to how that interrogation proceeded, _not_ to be in a position where she would have to potentially _see_ the madman again. Despite herself, she agrees. "Of course we'll help," she replies, just as Teresa looks about ready to spontaneously combust.

"Um, _what_?" snaps Sophie's friend. "No - you have got to be kidding me. I'm not risking my life to help stop something I had no part in!"

Blake crosses his arms and exchanges glances with Sophie. "It would be a simple, relatively safe job that would - "

But Teresa interrupts, having none of it, "Don't think you know better than me about my own life! You're just a _cop_ - who are _you_ to dictate what is safe and what isn't when you put yourself in danger all the time?!"

"I'm a detective actually," corrects Blake matter-of-factly, and Sophie is a bit surprised that he didn't mention that little detail in their earlier interactions. "And yes, I do - you need to calm down, Miss Price."

It seems to be a slap to the face for Teresa when he says this, a picture of tranquility, and she mellows a bit. "Okay, yeah" - a deep breath - "sorry. I'm just not willing to be involved in this. Can't I just go or something and pretend it never happened?"

Sophie raises an incredulous eyebrow. "You think I haven't tried that already? I mean, good gods - you weren't even aware any of this had happened until a few hours ago." She looks from Teresa to Blake and his mouth quirks, amusement in his eyes at her forthrightness. Meeting his gaze she inquires, "So there's no way for her to avoid this mess?"

Arms still crossed, the detective shrugs, the gratification draining slightly from his face. Suddenly he looks a lot older and a lot more tired than he had before. How many sleepless nights had this man had? Sophie has a good inkling that they beat out her own tenfold - that, to him, her short period of restlessness would appear as a single day to overcome. Though she knows it will do no good, she looks as him for only an instant longer and mentally apologizes for being difficult. He must grasp that she is rueful about the situation, because he contemplates them both and shakes his head. "I'll talk to the Commissioner about it, Miss Price, but I can't make any promises just yet..."

Sophie is surprised that Teresa does not lunge across the table to hug him by the way her eyes light up.

Blake seems relieved that she doesn't.

…

…

…

_2 DAYS LATER_

It is time - the day has come. Preparations have made and weapons have been stockpiled. The people in the old, dilapidated house are in a frenzy, packing and organizing despite their outward manifestations. Observing them all working together like a well-oiled piece of machinery puts first impressions out of an individuals mind. Bane watches all of them from a chair in the corner of the room, his arms crossed and his foot itching to tap with impatience.

A man leans over a battered suitcase, struggling to fit all the objects she has collected within it. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and a passing woman notices his plight, pausing to see what has gone wrong.

"'Got some trouble there?" the woman mumbles, so low that Bane almost has to strain to hear her words.

"No," replies the man bitterly, returning to his work. So irritated is he by this brief exchange that he all but shoves everything into the suitcase at once yanking the zipper shut and nearly heaving it at the woman. She rolls her eyes and mutters a curse - directed at the man - to herself before continuing on her way.

The woman goes to pass near Bane, posture noticeably stiffening, and the large man motions for her to stop for a moment. Her eyes wide with worry, she looks upon the masked face of her leader and nervously sticks her hands into her pockets.

"Boss, before you ask, I didn't do nothin'. I've been here workin' jus' like you told us to." Though she appears perturbed, her words - almost indecipherable through her thick, city accent - are still even and said in an undertone.

"I am certain you have been, sister," Bane says, shifting in his chair. "But what I want to know does not pertain to your work ethic. Tell me, is that man that just pushed you away a new recruit?"

Relief floods her face at this and she throws a look over her shoulder at the person of interest, currently packing yet another suitcase. "Who, the redhead? Yeah, man, he came in here with some of the boys 'bout a week ago. Hasn't said much - done less. I don't know why he's even - "

The man's account is cut off as Bane stands and shoves past her, almost knocking him off balance in the process. This is exactly what Bane needs: an unassuming individual, new and shiny enough to have avoided police investigation on his whereabouts.

The redheaded man is busy enough with his packing that he does not notice Bane's approach. "Here," he says amicably, "allow me." he gives him a wide berth as Bane finishes placing the objects - med kits, rolls of bandages, etc. - in the piece of luggage and zips it up, fumbling only just with the tiny zipper. When he is done, he picks up the suitcase and places it with the others, looking back up at the other man then. "What is your name?"

"Dillon."

"And why are you here?"

"Because I want to be."

"Not good enough." He steps close to him, hulking despite their similarities in height and build. "I ask again, _why are you here_?"

Dillon squares his shoulders, eyes darkening with the truth, and from his mouth come the words, "Because I want to see the earth made new. Because I want to see those who would hold back progress dead."

Bane nods, "Are you prepared to do what needs to be done?"

"Yes."

He is clapped on one broad shoulder, "Good. Follow me. I will show you what you must do..."

…

…

…

Sophie sits in the back of a cop car with John Blake once more, staring out the window with a renewed dread. If one had asked her yesterday if she expected to be potentially seeing Bane again she would have responded with a hearty _no_. But lo and behold, she is on standby with Gotham's main detective waiting for a call. She pulls her jacket more snugly around her body, sinking down into the seat as she turns her attention to the back of the passenger seat in front of her.

"Hey," Blake says, placing a tentative hand on her forearm, "it'll be okay. We're _going_ to stop him one way or another."

_That's what you thought before and look how that turned out_...she thinks to herself.

As it had turned out, Blake's chat with the police Commissioner on Teresa's behalf had been successful and the other woman was released from any duties under the protective watch of the authorities. It was only logical - how was she to know that she had been talking on the phone with the terrorist? Sophie is glad for Teresa, and even more glad for herself that her friend is not present to complicate matters.

A cell phone rings and Blake pulls it from his coat pocket. "Yeah?" he answers expectantly, listening for a few seconds before his eyes light up and he leans forward to speak to the cop driving the vehicle. "Western bridge out of the city." This he says with an urgency that could only mean something important is happening. He sits back and speaks into the phone again, "We're on our way." Subsequently ending the call, he turns to Sophie. "They have him," is all he says.

…

…

…

It takes about twenty minutes for them to get to the western bridge. In that time frame a light rain begins to fall.

All of the bridges have once again been blockaded, the only ones accessible to civilians being those with toll booths. Even then each vehicle is monitored, the smaller cars being only glanced at and the larger trucks and semis being directed into separate lanes for a more thorough search. There is a line of police cars on either side of the traffic; dozens of cops are at hand. Blake tells Sophie all of this en route to their destination. The western bridge is one of the ones that is completely blockaded, he explains, which is what makes the instance all the more odd.

It is easy to tell what is going on when the car pulls up. There is quite literally a mob of Gotham City police surrounding one man who kneels on the ground with his hands behind his head. All of the cops' weapons on trained on him.

Sophie, Blake, and the other officer exit their car and approach the group. Blake cuts through them, a laminated paper in his hand with a detailed description of the subject upon it. He had given it to Sophie earlier to read over with the purpose of refreshing her memory, though it is still fairly clear. Sophie trails not far behind Blake, but she stops when she gets to the edge of the small circle.

_There he is_...

The masked man has his eyes to the ground, clad in a large leather jacket and brown cargo pants. He is not moving. A large motorcycle lays on the ground not far away from him Sophie continues to watch him, pulling the hood of her coat up over her head to shield her from the rain, and listens as Blake talks to the man who called him.

"It was the weirdest thing," says the cop, "our boys are just waiting here, doing what they're supposed to do and keeping the traffic off the bridge when this guy just decides that he's gonna take his bike over it anyway." He sounds like he can't believe it, though with the stupidity of people it would have been perfectly plausible. "And the rest you know - we took him down, took off his helmet and found our guy underneath."

"And he just cooperated? _Just like that_?" Sophie looks over just in time to see Blake gesture broadly in Bane's direction and the cop's concordance.

"Yeah, he said that everything fell through and he wanted to turn himself in again. 'Said something about not being able to "continue this madness"."

Behind Sophie, another cop inappropriately mumbles, "Drama queen..."

Blake responds with a skeptical, "Well, we'll just have to see then. Miss Scott?" - Sophie bodily turns to him - "Shall we?"

They walk into the circle and come to stand before Bane. Still he does not look at them, on his knees on the wet asphalt. The rain dribbles down over his mask and down his leather-clad back. He looks positively defeated.

Blake takes a step closer to him without consulting the description paper and Sophie keeps a safe distance. "So you finally realized the world is a scary place did you?" Bane feigns ignorance, though by the stiffening of his posture Sophie can tell that the statement has gotten to him.

Ultimately, "You tell me," comes a voice that sounds world-weary and worn. It almost sounds as if it is from a completely different person, not injected with the smug confidence of the terrorist who had spoken to her just days before.

"I was just told you decided to turn yourself in, is this true?"

And with that, he raises his head. "I am here, aren't I?" His deep brown eyes fall on Sophie.

Wait...

_Brown eyes_?

Suddenly Sophie cannot find her breath.

"It's...it's not him..." she squeaks. All attention is on her.

Blake turns on his heel so quickly that he nearly knocks into her. "What did you say?"

She is shaking her head in revelation. "It's not him." She points at him for emphasis. "That man is not Bane."

Blake is abruptly very close and very intense, both hands on her shoulders. "Are you absolutely sure? How do you know?"

"His...eyes. His eyes are brown - they're supposed to be blue."

Taking a step back, Blake scans the paper in his hand and curses under his breath. "Let everyone know that this was a decoy!" he shouts, more on edge than Sophie has ever seen him, "No one gets over the open bridges until their vehicles are searched - that goes for cars too! Take this man into custody, we're done with - "

He it cut off as the shot of a gun rings out and the decoy falls face down, blood bespattering everything within a close radius. Sophie blanches and looks away as he twitches a moment then falls still. He had pulled a weapon on himself.

Everyone is silent; it had happened too fast to stop.

Blake grinds his teeth, his face flecked with red, and addresses the surrounding police force with fervor, "Get on it! _Go_!"

There is a flurry of movement as most of the excess cops around them rush to their cars, leaving behind only the ones that were assigned bridge-guarding duty.

Whirling back around, Blake approaches the dead pseudo-Bane again, leans over and grips the mask with one hand, pulling it straight off of his mangled head and tossing it off to the side. He then carefully rolls the body over. The face underneath is wrong; the proportions are wrong, the features are wrong, everything is wrong. Blake presses a finger to a particularly sickening looking cut on top the man's scalp - which was still in tact - fresh and hidden by the strap of the mask. "Cut yourself shaving?" he retorts, and then to Sophie he intones, "Only God knows how you caught on to him faster than I did, Miss Scott."

Any witty remark would have gone amiss.

…

…

…

"_You...are going to become me," Bane had said to the other man, Dillon, when they were away from prying ears._

"_How?"_

_The terrorist had taken up an unassuming, wooden box and opened the latch, raising the lid. Within it was a mask like his own - an identical twin it seems in Dillon's eyes. Bane had lifted it and offered it to him, his eyes never leaving the other man, and it had been taken reverently - examined gently._

_At length Bane had said, "It is not real."_

_Dillon's face had expressed surprise, and again he said, "How?" but added, "It looks so real..."_

"_It is merely a facsimile, an imitation created for the purpose of novelty."_

_A light had appeared to flicker on in Dillon's head. "They're sold to the public?"_

_Bane had nodded once and chuckles, "And for quite a handsome price, I might add." He had offered the box to the other man who had placed the faux mask back inside. "The people of this city never cease to amaze me with their futility." He had sighed and shaken his head, giving the closed box to his soon-to-be doppelganger. "You will need to do something about this..." he had indicated to his own, hairless cranium and Dillon had agreed nervously._

_After that he had informed the other man of further details: where he was to go and what he was to do. Upon their departure, he had pulled Dillon aside one final time and given him a small handgun. "I will not be seeing you again, brother," were the last words he had said, his voice reserved. The man had taken the gun with a shaking hand, understanding what he was being told to do before separating from the group to retrieve his means of transportation. _

He thinks of this as he slowly pulls down the overhead mirror from the passenger seat of a generic white sedan. The face that stares back at him is foreign; he has not often seen it in his forty-five years of life, avoiding mirrors like the monsters they are. Aside from when he eats or drinks, it is the first time he has taken off the mask since it was forced off during surgery over a year ago. Absentmindedly does he trace over the scars there with the tips of his fingers, an action that does naught but bring back horrid memories of the past, but still he persists, the momentary feeling of connection with his person outweighing negative emotions. Warm air from the vent in front of him washes over his exposed skin - it feels utterly bizarre. From the driver's seat, a random woman keeps glancing at him, rapt in his rare behaviour.

"Not really what I was expecting if you don't mind my saying so, boss," she tells him eventually, unwelcomingly wrenching him back to reality.

He stares at her harshly, glowering by way of a scarred mouth and does not say anything. He does not like the sound of his own, raw voice, having grown accustomed to the distorted mechanical tone that his mask provides. Flipping up the mirror, he crosses his arms, hidden by a basic, black jacket and watches the road ahead. The driver does not attempt to elicit any more conversation and he is content.

It is difficult, going so long without his normal form of pain relief, but the injections of the same medication are doing their job well enough for the time being, and he is able to deal with the slight aching throughout his body.

Looming ahead, in due course, is a massive line of cars making their way to the toll booths. Bane pulls a grey, knit hat over his head and adjusts the collar of his jacket so it conceals the ugly scar running down his neck. He observes the other cars and their occupants unobtrusively, as any normal commuter would do as they wait to cross the bridge. From its place on the dashboard, a cell phone rings and Bane answers it immediately.

"Yes?" His voice is like sandpaper, coarse and uneven.

"_Boss, I'm watchin' your guy now. He just got taken down by them cops and they're surrounding him good..._"

"Excellent. Are you in position to shoot him if he does not take his own life?"

"_Yessir, boss, I am_."

Bane does not say anything else, hanging up and placing the phone back from whence it came. They are but a few cars away from the pair of policemen checking the individual passers by. When they get through this small obstacle - and they _will_ - there is a short drive to a secluded airport where they will convene with his other followers and where an aircraft awaits to fly some of them to Europe.

In minutes the random woman driving the sedan pulls up to the line and the two law enforcers look in both sides of the car. Bane keeps his gaze down, assuming introversion.

"Where are you two headed?" one cop asks, sounding bored. Most likely he has to ask this to every car that passes.

The woman pipes up, "Wyoming - my brother Jack and I have relatives out there that we want to stay with until this whole thing blows over."

The policemen exchange glances and the other addresses Bane, "You're a pretty big guy, _Jack. _What do you do for a living?" He sounds unconvinced.

His eyes flicking up to the man at his window, he mutters in a strained American accent, "Wrestling - boxing. Physical stuff. 'Get beat on a lot - messed up my face a few years back."

The woman-driver adds, "It took a lot of time and money to get him to look like this again. All in all I think it worked out okay."

Both cops look at papers in their hands then back to "Jack". This they do a few times before one gets a call on his radio. "_Robertson to Young. Copy, Young._"

The cop replies with a standard, "Young, here."

"_Yeah I'm over at the western bridge and we're almost positive we just got the guy_."

"Oh, hey that's great! Thanks for the heads up." Each man steps back from the car while Young says, "Okay - you're both clear. Sounds like the threat has been handled, after all." He smiles with relief, "Safe travels to both of you."

The car pulls away, soon to leave the city behind, while back at the toll booth, Officer Young will receive a distress call only moments later stating that the supposedly captured terrorist is a fake, is now dead and that the police should begin searching _all vehicles _and withholding anyone who appears the least bit suspicious.

But, Bane assures himself with confidence, they will forget about Wyoming-bound Jack the wrestler and his loving sister, because they have gone through hundreds, if not thousands of people this day.

Yes, for once in his lifetime, Bane can allow himself to be at ease with the current affairs, concentrating instead on what the future will hold.

…

…

…

"Detective?"

Blake snaps out of his reverie and looks up at the female cop from the table he sits at, nursing a cup of coffee. "Yes, ma'am?" he drawls.

"We have a dissenter."

Those four words have him on his feet, abandoning his coffee and following the woman to an interrogation room. Inside sits a male in his late-teens looking absolutely terrified. Blake enters the room and the kid at the table looks ill.

"Look man," he starts in a rush, "I didn't wanna be involved with this Bane guy but I got roped into it by mistake and he wouldn't let me leave - I mean I tried but I was gonna get my neck snapped if I tried to get out again!"

Blake raises his arms, gesturing for him to calm down. "I understand your problem and I'm sorry all of this has happened to you, but right now I have to know something."

"Anything for safety, man - they're looking for me and I need help."

"And you'll get it," replies the detective before he asks, "Do you know where Bane is going?"

It is so straightforward that the kid is left reeling for a second. He looks somewhere between frightened and unsure.

Blake tries to help him along. "Hey, it's okay to tell me. We're here to help you and we can keep you safe until we clear this up, alright?"

Shaking his head, the kid looks John Blake straight in the eyes and gives him an answer that sends terror through his being.

"Italy. He's going to Italy."

Blake leaves him then, directing a subordinate detective to continue gleaning information out of the kid.

He has a very private, very important phone call to make.

**A/N: There you have it :) I hope you liked it and sorry again for the wait! I didn't really intend to give Blake such a big role in this, but I decided that Sophie needed a friend who is canon in the movieverse, thus: John Blake. I hope you all don't mind :3**

**Anyway, tell me what you think in a review! Maybe let me know you're all still there? **

**Until next time :D**


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